


Long Way From Home

by TsarinaTorment



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Accidental Universe Travel, Adventure, Family, Friendship, Gen, Leaving the tags here for now but will add more once the fic gets going, Multiverse, TAG meets TOS, This fic is gonna be a monster
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 53,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26739331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TsarinaTorment/pseuds/TsarinaTorment
Summary: His brothers are missing. In their place is a family of strangers, the only explanation that makes any sense is beyond comprehension, and the only solution is impossible. Scott Tracy's never been so far from home.
Relationships: Scott Tracy & Alan Tracy, Scott Tracy & Brains, Scott Tracy & Gordon Tracy, Scott Tracy & Grandma Tracy, Scott Tracy & John Tracy, Scott Tracy & Scott Tracy, Scott Tracy & Virgil Tracy
Comments: 53
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds

_Beep… Beep… Beep…_

The shrill noise pierced his head unpleasantly. It was familiar, frustratingly so, but as unconsciousness slowly permitted him to drift awake, he couldn't find a single reason for it. Who was hurt?

And why, he wondered as he peeled his eyes open briefly to see a sterile white ceiling, was he lying in a bed? A hospital bed, with wires pressing against his skin.

His memories held no answer, for all that he probed at them.

The mission had been a simple one. Solo, even, his brothers still fast asleep in their beds as the dead of night cradled home in its embrace. A trapped climber was routine by this point – Alan likened it to International Rescue's equivalent of the fireman's cat up a tree, for all the comparison was somewhat inappropriate. Grandma had told him off for that, when she'd heard him say it. He hadn't, seeing the humour. Grandma had then told _him_ off for not being a responsible adult and schooling his youngest brother.

The woman shouldn't have been there, alone amongst the peaks of the Rockies with no backup as dawn broke to find her camp set up too close to a precipice and a simple rockfall cutting off any route she could take with the gear she'd had. She'd made the call, and Thunderbird One had been dispatched to pick up the latest in a long list of stranded climbers.

After he'd set her down at the base of the mountains, he'd started talking with John about sending out a worldwide PSA to please be careful in the mountains. It had started off a joke, something to keep his mind alert as he turned the beautiful red nose of his girl towards home, but he'd barely left the American coastline before their discussion took on a more serious note. Too many climbers were taking risks that just never used to happen. International Rescue was being taken for granted, and they only had so much capability to be in multiple places at once.

The beautiful, rugged spires of home had come into view, John signing off from the conversation for another of his cat naps, and he'd landed Thunderbird One safely in her silo without a hitch. He remembered post-flight checks, making a note to check a minor issue with a shoulder harness later after some sleep, and then disembarking onto the extended gantry as usual.

Then, nothing.

Had he fallen from the gantry? His brothers were periodically clucking about the lack of a handrail – Gordon, in particular, disliked it – but he'd never felt unsafe on it. It was high above the hangar floor, however, and while the _beep… beep… beep…_ steadfastly continued, he was in no pain. An unchecked fall from that height would have left his body broken.

Experimentally, he flexed his fingers. They obeyed instantly, hands curling into loose fists and then extending again. His toes responded equally positively. No paralysis, tricking him into thinking there was no injury, then. Well, he'd always take good news, and more made itself known as he drifted a hand up to his head. No lumps, bumps or bandaging of any sort.

In fact, there was no bandaging anywhere. He'd spent enough time injured over the years to know the slightly itchy feeling of the fabric against his skin, but nowhere could he feel even the tight stickiness of a plaster clinging to his skin.

Thoroughly mystified at the information his memory and sense of touch were relaying, he opened his eyes again. This time prepared for the white, he didn't immediately close them again. Instead, he looked around, realising with a sinking feeling that wherever he was, it wasn't home.

The room was an infirmary of some sort, as he'd initially surmised. With at least one other bed in clear view, and room for more between metallic tables and cabinets filled with meticulously organised jars and bottles, it was clearly private, rather than hospital-grade. He was reminded of their infirmary at home, ready for use at a moment's notice despite ignored prayers that it would never be needed and kept organised by the iron fists of Grandma and her willing protégé Virgil.

There was a window, though. At home, carved into the rock their villa was as much an extension of as an intrusion upon, the infirmary had no natural light source. Artificial lights and holographic visages kept the room from being a dark dungeon. From his position on the bed, he couldn't see outside, but the light streaming in through open blinds was entirely natural.

Most bizarre of all, however, was the technology surrounding him. At a glance it seemed outdated, the light-up displays using something that seemed even older than LEDs and not a hologram in sight. John would dismiss it as junk, he assumed, before realising that he had no idea what most of it was for. Numbers flickered, not even digital but a flick-flick-flick of cycling cards. If not for the labels – tacky, raised lines of metal forming letters and words – the idea that it was monitoring his blood pressure and other vital signs would never have even crossed his mind.

Basic competence with standard hospital technology had been drilled into them all firmly by Grandma, even if only Virgil had taken it further than the fundamentals needed to keep someone alive long enough for professional medical help to arrive. Outdated technology had been included in that list, anything Grandma had ever used throughout her life a requirement because not everywhere had the technology of International Rescue, or even an up to date machine.

He could say with certainty that he wouldn't even know where to start with the technology surrounding him. Logic dictated that that meant it was even older than Grandma, or state of the art beyond even Brains' inventions, but neither felt right.

There was nothing primitive about the machinery, for all that he still maintained John would find it fit for the WRMs. Brains and Virgil would be itching to take it apart, see how it worked and whether they could improve it, or find inspiration to improve their own.

Speaking of his family, it was odd that none of them were nearby. Virgil almost always camped out if someone was injured or sick, and if he was away on a rescue another Tracy would step up to take his place. Gordon never stopped talking when he was on infirmary duty, finding topic after topic to plough through until he found one the injured party reacted to and milked it for all it was worth. Alan, in true teenager fashion, was a fidgeting wreck unless he had his games with him; it was not unusual for him to flop belly-down on an unoccupied bed with his headset on in his own form of company. John might not be capable of physically being in the room, unless it was so bad he'd felt compelled down from his beloved stars, but constant communication links allowed him to be tied in at all times.

Of all his brothers, it was John he was most surprised to have seen or heard nothing of since he awoke. His vitals should have been being streamed straight to Five, no matter where in the world he was – John would have known the instant he regained consciousness and responded accordingly. Even if, as he realised, his uniform and communicator had been relieved from his person.

Someone, presumably the person responsible for settling him in the unfamiliar infirmary, had changed him out of his flight suit and into soft, flannel pyjamas. They were comfortable enough, even if they weren't his usual style, and fit perfectly. His uniform, he discovered with relief after another look around the room, was folded neatly on a chair. Everything was there, his baldric still full of grapple packs, barring the one used up on the rescue, and the grapple itself, and the controls for remote piloting both One and his jetpack remained three per bracer.

Wherever he was, and whoever had put him there, it appeared no-one was interested in investigating International Rescue's gear. At least he could rule out the Hood, he supposed, although perhaps he'd have preferred their nemesis to the total unknown…

No, he decided after a moment's deliberation. He wasn't quite that desperate. He was unrestrained and his gear was safe. That automatically made the situation far better than anything involving the Hood.

Still, too many questions and no answers for any of them spurred him into action. Pushing himself up into a sitting position, wires tugging futilely before falling away and sending the machines into a frenzy, he steeled himself to make a break for it – out of the room and hopefully ending up somewhere that would give him the answers he needed.

The door opened as beeps turned into squeals, and he turned towards the new arrival, hoping to see Virgil or Grandma, hands on hips as they chivvied him back into bed.

It was not Virgil or Grandma. Nor was it any of his other brothers.

Sharp blue eyes surveyed – _analysed_ – him, set into a face that was hard to read. Furrowed brows gave the stare an almost disturbing intensity as his conscious state was registered; they were almost the same colour as the mop of short dark brown hair on the man's head. Dimples that, if coupled with a smile, could bedazzle and disarm anyone completed the look, and he felt his jaw drop slightly before strength of will forced it shut again.

Standing in front of Scott Tracy, arms crossed and wearing a look of cautious suspicion he knew all too well, was Scott Tracy.


	2. Chapter 2

Logic screamed that he was actually facing the Hood, the twisted man adopting his own appearance for some scheme or other that Scott really didn't want to know about. His gut told logic to go take a hike – there was no way the Hood would be standing there, barely two feet from his uniform, and not raiding any and all technology he could get his grubby little paws on. Nor would the Hood leave him unrestrained when he'd had plenty of opportunity to secure him during the gap in his memory.

Besides, the Hood was a perfectionist. His disguises were flawless, a product of technology Brains rolled his eyes at but acknowledged was an engineering masterpiece, if sadly in the wrong hands. This Scott in front of him was not a carbon copy.

For starters, much to Scott's chagrin, the man's hair was a healthy brown all over. No grey traitors wormed their way along his roots, signs of stress he desperately tried to ignore even as his brothers taunted him for their existence and pulled stunts that felt designed to increase their number. The brown was also slightly lighter than his own, although that could just have been a product of more washes and less gel. Despite the lack of grey hairs, he also got the impression that this man was actually older than him, if only by a year or so.

"How did you get here?" His voice was different, too. The pitch wasn't the same, nor was the tone quite right. Virgil could give a better summary of the nuances, he was sure.

The words, though. Those were all Scott, right down to the sharp delivery and clear expectation of a prompt answer. Skipping pleasantries, and heading straight for the heart of the matter because they didn't have time to dance around the issue.

"I might have a better idea if I knew where 'here' was," he challenged. "What is this place? Where am I?" Where were his brothers?

The Other-Scott (Fake Scott? Hood-Masquerading-As-Scott?) locked gazes with him. What he was looking for, Scott didn't know, but he refused to cower away from his doppelgänger and met his steely, searching look with one of his own. Logic still insisted that the Hood, or at least the Hood's technology, had to be responsible, but he'd learnt to trust his gut long before he'd even heard of his father's dream of International Rescue and that was adamant that Kayo's miserable excuse for a family member had nothing to do with the man in front of him.

What it couldn't tell him was who the man _was_ , aside from an imperfect clone of himself. The unusual technology surrounding them – _alien_ , Alan might call it for lack of a more rational explanation – was another piece to the puzzle that wasn't slotting together.

Puzzles were more of John's thing, not his. There were many times his ginger brother had rescued the poor pieces from his hands as he tried to force them into the wrong places.

Why had John not made contact yet?

"Who are you?" he demanded when it became clear that the other man wasn't intending on answering his other questions. "Why am I here? Where are my brothers?"

"Brothers?" Other-Scott repeated, frowning deeply. "We found you alone."

" _Found_ me?" Scott spat. "Where? Last place I remember was the securest part of my own home! There's no way you got near me without passing my brothers!" His brothers, sleeping soundly in the belief that they were safe in their own home. Even John had gone to sleep, secure on Five, but if they'd reached Thunderbird One's hangar they'd have reached the space elevator docking system. "So where. Are. My. Brothers?"

"You were in _our_ home," Other-Scott bit back, hands briefly balling into fists before being forced to relax again. "Alone. Wherever your _brothers_ are, it's not here." Scott didn't like the emphasis on _brothers_.

"Don't lie to me!" he roared, temper fraying. His brothers _had_ to be with him, otherwise John would have made contact asking where he'd gone. Otherwise this man – and others beside him – had invaded their home and taken him whilst leaving his brothers but that made no sense. Why take only one member of International Rescue when you could have all five? Why take only one Tracy – even if it was the eldest, the one with the most access to all their assets – when you could take more for additional insurance?

They hadn't tied him down, and the wires hooking him up to the bizarre machines had long since lost their hold on him from his earlier movement. A rookie mistake. With years of Air Force training behind him, Scott launched himself at the other man.

Blue eyes widened just before a fist made contact with his cheek, and Other-Scott staggered backwards before catching his balance, his hand tenderly brushing over the injured area. The movement had put him to one side, no longer between Scott and the door, and Scott took full advantage of that. If this man wasn't going to admit where his brothers were, he'd find them himself.

It was his turn to receive a punch as he jumped towards the door, putting him off-course and allowing Other-Scott to block his way again. This time, his curiously wary look had changed to an angry one, and as they met in a flurry of blows Scott couldn't tell which of them moved first.

"Let. Me. At. My. Brothers," he spat between blows, gasping as an elbow caught him in the solar plexus just as Other-Scott doubled over from a fist to the gut.

"They're not, _argh_ , here!" Other-Scott insisted, hooking their ankles together and bringing them tumbling to the floor, where they pushed and shoved at each other, trying to get the upper hand. Something fell off a table as Scott's back slammed into it, shattering into many glass fragments and dousing him with a cool liquid. Another bottle hit Other-Scott's shoulder on the way down, before smashing on the floor and adding to the mess.

They were equally matched, neither able to get the upper hand as they rolled around on the floor, fists flying, heads clashing, and elbows jabbing whatever fleshy body parts they could reach in all the chaos. Broken glass dug mercilessly into bare skin wherever it was visible, the liquid contents of the former bottles oozing through their clothes. Other-Scott's head slammed against the bed, but he barely paused before Scott found his own head colliding with a metal table, darkening his vision for a split second.

"What's going on here?" an unfamiliar voice demanded. Scott ignored it, and Other-Scott met his latest attacks with equal fervour. "Scott, stop!"

Scott had no intention of stopping. He didn't recognise the voice, but Other-Scott had flinched so he did, which meant they were working together.

Strong arms grabbed him, hauling him away from Other-Scott with a grunt, and he kicked out at the warm body restraining him. Other-Scott had been captured too, a shorter brown-haired man built like a tank firmly hooking him under the shoulders and frowning furiously as he fought to keep hold of Scott's doppelgänger, who was as determined to get free as Scott himself.

"BOYS!" the voice thundered right in his ear, no doubt belonging to the owner of the arms restraining him. "What is this nonsense all a- _oof_?" Scott threw his head back, clashing with what felt like a nose, from the way it gave.

"Where are my brothers?" His demand came out almost as a scream, all his frustration at the situation pouring out of him as at least two more hostiles made themselves apparent. Other-Scott was stopping short of causing any damage to his own captor in his bids for freedom, suggesting that while the man was breaking up the fight, he was still on Other-Scott's side.

"I told you!" Other-Scott shouted back at him. "They're not here! We only found you!"

"They must be here!" Scott insisted. "Don't lie to me!"

"E-nuff!" the man behind him joined in, the imperious tone ruined by the clear sounds of a broken nose. "Shedate im!"

Scott fought harder as a ginger man entered the room, looking at him with wide brown eyes before surveying the mess in front of him with trepidation. He picked his way across glass-strewn floor carefully, but Scott was more interested in Other-Scott, whose attempts to get free had reduced to a token effort as his attention was briefly stolen by the ginger man. He recognised that look of concern too well, far too used to seeing it in the mirror.

"Oh my!" a frail woman's voice sounded from the doorway. "Oh, what a mess. Jefferson, what are you doing to that poor young man?"

_Jefferson_. The name was so familiar it hurt, but at least he had a name for Other-Scott – or so he thought until the man holding him responded.

"He's quith ou o conthrol, muffer."

Unable to help himself, Scott tore his gaze away from Other-Scott, who had now stopped resisting capture entirely in favour of looking in the direction of the doorway almost sheepishly, to catch a glimpse of the man holding him. Silver-grey hair and a receding hairline weren't immediately familiar, however, and the hold he was in preventing him from seeing much more. He could, however, see the elderly lady who had interrupted the fight. Rosy cheeks, a slightly bent back and a quiver in her hands all pointed towards a particularly advanced age.

"Where are my brothers?" he asked again, reigning his voice in to an almost-level, if still intense, level.

"I _told_ you-" Other-Scott started forwards again, only to be brought up short by the man still holding him tightly.

"Your brothers, dearie?" the old woman interrupted. "Oh, I'm afraid I don't know. Jefferson, why don't you help the young man find his brothers?"

"They're not here, Grandma," Other-Scott said, and Scott flared up again.

"Well then, dearie, it seems to me that instead of all this fighting, you should be looking to find out where they are," Other-Scott's grandmother pointed out. "I'm sure their absence is terribly distressing him. I know _you'd_ be terribly distressed if your brothers were missing." She pottered towards him, the ginger-haired man sweeping back to her side and nudging broken glass out of the way with a foot before she could tread on any. "Jefferson, let him go. Are you hungry, dearie? I've got an apple pie that's just finished baking."

"Muffer!" the man holding him protested, but the woman was no longer paying her son any attention, bespectacled eyes homing in on Scott. He looked around the room; Other-Scott was still held by the brown-haired man, and the ginger was hovering awkwardly by the elderly lady but shooting him assessing looks. The grip on his arms was slackening, and it became clear that no-one wanted to fight with her in the midst, Scott himself included.

"Well, dearie?" the woman prompted, and he slid out of the other man's grasp. The instant he did so, a hand, just as frail and delicate as the rest of her, came to rest on his forearm. "If apple pie doesn't meet your fancy, I have an orange tart, or some banana bread. Oh, if none of those tickle you, I'm sure I can find something," she wittered as he found himself being coaxed from the room.

"Uh, apple pie would be… fine," he said haltingly. Behind him, he heard a noise of protest. "Thank you, er, Mrs..?"

"Oh dear, I didn't introduce myself." She sounded mortified at the omission. "I'm so sorry, dear. It's Mrs Tracy."

It shouldn't have bothered him. Tracy wasn't an uncommon name, for all that there was only one family famous for it. The elderly lady looked nothing like his grandmother – either of them, even if his recollections of his mother's mother were faded – but her grandson still looked like him, to the point he still didn't trust the other man, or indeed anyone in the house. In light of that, having his own surname thrown around startled him.

"Is there something wrong?" Mrs Tracy asked him. "Oh, you don't look well at all, dear. Let's sit you down." He found himself ushered into a seat as they reached what was clearly the kitchen. A young woman was already there, pulling the promised apple pie out of a bizarre contraption that vaguely resembled an old oven. "Tin-Tin, would you be a dear and fetch your father?" the elderly lady asked her. "This young man doesn't seem very well."

"But of course, Mrs Tracy." Tin-Tin had a slight lilting accent to her voice, somewhere south-east Asian if Scott had to guess. "I'll find him now." She placed the apple pie, which smelled absolutely _heavenly_ to Scott, compared to his own grandmother's regular offerings, on the table and left the room.

"Eat up, dearie," Mrs Tracy insisted, placing a plate in front of him. "Help yourself to as much as you want."

The apple pie smelled _good_ , and despite his misgivings at the entire situation, a homemade apple pie was far too tempting and he found himself tucking in to a healthy slice.

"What would you like to drink, dear?" she asked. "Tea, coffee? Oh, I have some juice somewhere, now where did I put it..?"

"Water is fine," he answered between mouthfuls.

"Oh, are you sure?" she queried. "It's no trouble at all."

"Perfectly," he replied, only to blink as a steaming cup of tea appeared in front of him.

"You called, Mrs Tracy?" An older man had entered the kitchen while he wasn't looking, an impressive and concerning feat considering Scott was still on edge about the entire situation. His accent was the same as Tin-Tin's, implying that this was her father.

"Oh, Kyrano," the woman greeted. "This young man, oh, silly me, I never asked for your name, dearie… Dearie?"

Scott barely heard her, the cup of tea he'd started to lift falling from startled fingers to smash onto the table, spilling the liquid everywhere.

_Kyrano_. Another familiar name, if not a familiar face. First, Other-Scott, who could have been his identical twin. Then, Mrs Tracy, a name he knew all too well even if she didn't look like his own grandmother. Now, Kyrano, another name albeit one whose owner he hadn't seen in too long, with a different face but the same intensity about him.

"Dearie?" Mrs Tracy asked again. "Oh, what a mess. He's as white as a sheet, Kyrano."

Something reminiscent of smelling salts wafted under his nose and he spluttered.

"You're bleeding, sir," the man said matter-of-factly. "Allow me."

Scott had forgotten about the broken bottles he'd been wrestling amongst with Other-Scott, but now the man had mentioned it, he could feel the sting of glass embedded in his arms. No permission was sought before a gentle yet firm hand wrapped around a glass-free section of his arm, holding it in place as a pair of tweezers were produced. He was no stranger to medical attention, and while he didn't know the man – Other-Kyrano, apparently, for all that he clearly wasn't English, and probably couldn't trump Scott in a fight – he did at least know the procedure for removing foreign bodies from open wounds and watched like a hawk as the man more or less followed the methods he would have expected.

"Please, drink your tea," Other-Kyrano asked once a nasty, stinging liquid – disinfectant was horrible stuff and Scott would never like it – had been applied and bandages carefully wrapped around the worst of the wounds. "You might find it helpful." A second cup of tea replaced the smashed remains of the old one, as Other-Kyrano efficiently cleaned up the mess.

How was _tea_ supposed to help? Lady Penelope might insist as such sometimes, but Scott would much rather a strong coffee chock full of caffeine. Still, Mrs Tracy was looking at him with a worried look on his face, and Grandma would murder him for defying or otherwise offending an elderly lady who had done him no harm. He cautiously pulled the cup closer to him, and was startled to discover it wasn't an 'Assam Blend', or whatever other fancy teas Lady Penelope liked to serve up. It was herbal, and surprisingly delicious, he discovered after his first tentative sip.

"Kyrano serves wonderful tea," Mrs Tracy told him, sitting down across the table from him. She had her own cup of steaming liquid in front of her, and sipped at it delicately. "Now, dear, I'm afraid I didn't catch your name?" Scott paused, taking another tentative sip of the tea to buy himself another moment to think. Should he give them his name? He didn't know what they already knew. Was it worth a lie? No, he'd never be able to keep it up.

"Scott," he admitted.

"Oh my," Mrs Tracy said. "What a coincidence. That's the name of my eldest grandson." Scott's gut churned unpleasantly, and he put the cup down before he dropped that one, too. "Oh, you even look the same. Isn't that strange?"

_Strange_ was one word to describe what was going on. _Suspicious_ was another.

"You're the fella that punched Scott?" A young man barged into the room. He had pale blond hair and light blue eyes that should have made him attractive, except he seemed to have a permanent frown etched into his face. "What gave you the right?" Scott matched his glare with one of his own as the young man – barely an adult at all, if he had to guess an age – stormed up to him.

"Alan!" Tin-Tin was there, resting a hand on his arm. "Please, calm yourself."

Another familiar name, and now that he'd heard it Scott found himself instantly drawing parallels between the man and his youngest brother. There must have been at least five years between them, but Scott could see Alan looking like that man in a few years, although hopefully without the frown.

"But, Tin-Tin!" Other-Alan protested. "Scott's face is bruised. I can't just let that go!" He even had the same personality, a rigid sense of right and wrong with little ability to see the other person's side, and a reluctance to acknowledge that black and white was joined by a large span of grey.

"Your brother can fight his own battles, Alan," Tin-Tin soothed. "I'm sure it was all just a misunderstanding."

"What about Dad's nose?" Other-Alan demanded. "You can't expect me to…"

Scott tuned out the argument at that. _Dad_. He tried not to be a petty person, but there were times when he couldn't quite prevent envy bubbling up when he heard other people taking about their Dads, taking them for granted as though they'd always be there. Over the years he'd got better at smothering it, but this was a man named Alan, with a brother named Scott, and a grandmother called Mrs Tracy, and they had their Dad.

He'd broken their Dad's nose when he'd tried to stop him attacking one of his sons. If that had happened to his Dad – if Dad was still _around_ to break up fights on their behalf, no matter how unwelcome the gesture would have been in the moment – he'd be fuming, too. He wasn't going to apologise though. Not now, when he didn't know where he was, who he was with, or _where his brothers were_. He didn't even know what these people planned to do with him, regardless of whether or not his presence in their home was intentional on their behalf.

"Leave it, Alan." The blond man's tirade was cut off by none other than Other-Scott – now confirmed to actually be a Scott himself – as he walked into the room. "Is there any apple pie left, Grandma?"

"Oh, yes, dear," Mrs Tracy assured him. "Take a seat and I'll bring some over."

"Thanks," Other-Scott said, pulling up a chair a couple away from Scott. His face was bruised, as Other-Alan had said, a beautiful darkening along his cheekbone and narrowly missing his eye. Other-Kyrano set a cup of tea in front of him, which he accepted gratefully and drank without hesitation.

"But, Scott!" Other-Alan complained, and his brother sighed.

"That's enough, Alan," he said, tearing into the plate of apple pie his grandmother placed in front of him. "Leave it."

Other-Alan caved, albeit with obvious bad grace, and stalked out from the room. Scott watched him go. Part of him was glad that the younger man was being openly hostile – at least he knew where, exactly, he stood with him. Other-Scott was less clear, patched up from their scuffle and now sat at the same table, devouring his grandmother's apple pie. Suspicious glances remained, but there was no open hostility.

The door opened again, and Other-Alan re-entered followed by the two young men from the infirmary, and-

A second teacup smashed onto the table.

"Oh dear!" Mrs Tracy cried, hurrying over to him. Other-Kyrano quickly swept up the remains as she took hold of his hand. "Scott, dear, are you alright?"

"Scott?" one of the men asked. He thought it might have been Other-Scott.

"Oh, Jeff, are you sure there's nothing wrong with him?" Mrs Tracy was asking. "This is the second turn he's had in as many minutes! Oh, look at him, he's gone as white as a sheet again, Kyrano."

Scott barely heard them. The man who had just entered the room had the obvious signs of a broken nose, identifying him as Other-Alan's Dad. He also had salt and pepper hair, more salt than pepper, and a receding hairline. Steel eyes fixed on him sharply, hard and unforgiving, and a five o'clock shadow did nothing to hide the dimples in his cheeks. This was the same man that had restrained him, and while a glimpse in his periphery hadn't been enough to cause recognition, now that Scott could see him properly he looked like Dad – an older version of Dad, but then he hadn't seen Dad since he was nineteen. No doubt, if Dad was still with them, he'd look very similar to the man in front of him.

This had gone beyond simple words like _weird_ and _suspicious_. _Impossible_ sounded more like it.

"His medical results all came back clear, Grandma," the brown-haired man from the infirmary assured her, squatting down in front of him and shining a penlight into his eyes. He recoiled from the bright light, tearing his gaze away from Not-Dad – it couldn't be Dad, Dad was _gone_ – to frown at him.

"Did you call him Scott?" the ginger man asked, walking over to the table and slotting himself in a chair between him and Other-Scott.

"That _is_ my name," he said before anyone else could speak up. A hush fell over the room, broken by Other-Kyrano setting a third cup of tea in front of him.

"Drink," the man said. "It will help."

"Your name is Scott?" Other-Alan demanded. "But-"

"That's enough, Alan," Not-Dad interrupted. The blond frowned, but obeyed. "Scott, is it?"

"That's what I said," Scott retorted, taking a sip of the fresh drink. As Other-Kyrano said, it did help. Somehow.

"Scott..?" Not-Dad trailed off expectantly. Surrounded by too many familiar names, Scott decided against answering. He took a longer drink, ignoring the patriarch of the family in favour of assessing the rest of the room. Other-Alan and Other-Scott he already had some measure of, the former more so than the latter. Mrs Tracy was a kind enough lady, and Tin-Tin seemed of a similar temperament. Other-Kyrano was difficult to read, but his focus was the two men whose names he had yet to hear.

The ginger noticed his scrutiny, returning it in kind. There was something familiar about him, but Scott batted away the notion. He was simply off-balance at the number of familiar names and faces already – that was no reason to start looking for more connections where there were none. No matter now much the warm brown eyes of the two as-yet unnamed men reminded him of two of his brothers.

Not-Dad bristled when it became apparent that he wouldn't give his name.

"I'd like to know, who, exactly, is trespassing in my home," he said. Clearly the man was used to being obeyed.

"I'd like to know how, exactly, I got here, and where my family are," he retorted.

"You don't know how you got here?" the brown-haired man asked, surprised.

"Virgil," Not-Dad warned. The third teacup was spared the fate of the previous two purely by being on the table when Scott's grip slacked.

"No," he said firmly, powering through the unpleasant sensation dousing him again before Mrs Tracy commented on _another_ 'turn'. "I don't. I don't know where 'here' is, either."

"But how could you get here without knowing?" the newly dubbed Other-Virgil asked. "None of us brought you here."

Scott didn't bother responding, draining the cup of tea before any more unpleasant surprises could befall it and standing up.

"Thanks for the tea," he said to Other-Kyrano, "and the apple pie," he continued to Mrs Tracy, ignoring Not-Dad as he pushed the chair under the table.

"Dear, are you sure you're alright?" Mrs Tracy fussed. He wasn't, but he didn't tell her that. Instead he gave a short nod before choosing a door at random and walking through it, ignoring a protest from Not-Dad.

A corridor greeted him, with a neat row of doors on one side and a branch off to the left leading to who knew what.

"Now look here." A hand clapped down on his shoulder, and he was halfway to removing it forcibly before placing the voice. Having already broken Not-Dad's nose, thereby earning the wrath of at least one member of the family, it was probably not a good idea to injure the man further. It didn't stop him shrugging him off, however. "I don't want you walking around our home unsupervised, young man."

"Then supervise me," he retorted.

"I intend to." A hand returned to his shoulder – lightly, this time, Not-Dad clearly learning his lesson – and steered him towards what now looked a lot like an elevator from those old, vintage films Grandma occasionally put on even though they were from before _her_ time, or so she claimed. Neither he nor any of his brothers were brave enough to dispute it. "Gordon, I want everyone in the lounge. Let's start from the beginning."

"Yes, Father," the ginger man said – Scott hadn't even noticed him behind Not-Dad – and tried very hard not to react to the name, even though the situation had flown past anything _anyone_ could classify as a coincidence at this point. Scott, Virgil, Gordon, Alan… all they were missing was a John.

Not-Dad gestured for him to enter the elevator, ignoring what seemed to be a perfectly serviceable flight of stairs, and he did so with trepidation, watching metal shutters slide across sharply before a jerk beneath their feet had them rising.

"Jeff Tracy," Not-Dad said suddenly. Scott glanced at him as the elevator stopped moving and the metal shutters opened with a clatter. "Call me Mr Tracy." His cool, unpersonable approach was nothing like how Scott remembered Dad, and that helped, a little. He didn't intend on calling him anything, though. Not until he knew why there was a clone of his father, and of himself, in this strange house

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, last chapter got some fun reactions. We're clearing some things up a bit now, perhaps. The goal is weekly-ish updates on this fic, but we'll see what uni has to say about that. For now I do have this written up to chapter 7, so that's a few more weeks of updates ready to go.


	3. Chapter 3

The room they ended up in, passing through another room full of chairs in the process, was the closest any room so far had looked to home. A sunken area contained a variety of seats, all in front of a desk, while towards the window sat a baby grand.

"Take a seat," Not-Dad said, settling himself behind the desk. A position of power, Scott noted. Not-Dad had a clear idea of where they stood with regards to each other, and it wasn't in Scott's favour. He remained standing, noticing pictures of five young men and a beautiful woman on the walls, surrounded by unmistakably oriental artwork. The young men were familiar. Four of them, he'd already met. Other-Scott looked back at him almost cheekily, while Other-Virgil held a cigarette. Other-Alan looked disinterested, and Other-Gordon was reclining casually. At the far end, next to Other-Scott, was a fifth man – blond – with his arms folded, and Scott's insides twisted unpleasantly. He had a feeling he knew the final man's name.

The rest of the family began to file in, seating themselves in what appeared to be a pre-ordained seating plan. Other-Alan perched on a corner of the desk, and Scott waited until everyone had found their seats before folding himself up into a sofa in the middle of the sunken area.

"Now, the first order of business is to work out exactly how Scott arrived here," Not-Dad proclaimed. "He claims not to know, but there must be some clues."

"But, Jeff," Mrs Tracy interjected. "What about his brothers? You are going to look for them, aren't you?"

Scott had been about to demand the same thing. Not-Dad looked uncomfortable.

"But Mother-" he began. "This is a remote island. It should be impossible for anyone to arrive unannounced. For our own security, we must find out how Scott arrived here."

"Surely we can look for clues about his brothers at the same time, Father," Other-Virgil offered. "There are enough of us." Not-Dad seemed unconvinced, and Scott got to his feet, ready to demand that they locate his brothers before doing anything else, when the door opened.

"I, uh, think I-I've solved the, uh, mystery of h-how Scott a-arrived here, Mr Tracy." Scott stared at the man in the doorway, his stutter and blue-framed glasses instantly reminding him of Brains, for all that this man was white, and English from his accent.

"You have, Brains?" the elder man asked, his attention immediately switching off of Scott, who was getting very sick and tired of familiar names and semi-familiar faces with no explanations.

"W-well, it, uh, might sound a bit fantastical, b-but John and I believe i-it's, uh, the only explanation," Other-Brains warned as he entered the room properly. At this point, Scott didn't care if it was fantastical – if it was plausible, he'd take it, especially after the casual name drop of one of his brothers. The final one, completing the set.

"The, uh, DNA sample I collected turns out to, uh, p-perfectly match the, uh, sample I took from o-our Scott."

"What sample?" Scott interrupted, sparing a glance towards Other-Scott, who had spoken at the same time.

"Your, uh, surprising resemblance to o-our Scott prompted me to, uh, take a sample for a-analysis." Other-Brains didn't seem the slightest bit repentant. "A-as for you, uh, Scott, t-there are many, uh, ways to obtain a sample from, uh, your o-own home."

"So you're saying this guy's a clone?" Other-Alan interrupted, and Scott bristled.

"Well, uh, technically b-by sharing a-a ninety nine point nine p-percent DNA match they are, uh, c-clones, but not in the, uh, way you m-mean, Alan," Brains replied.

"Explain, Brains," Not-Dad demanded. "What do you mean by that?"

"W-well, Mr Tracy, when I-I said that, uh, their DNA was a-a perfect match, t-there is, uh, one s-small discrepancy." He presented them with a clipboard, which showed far too many numbers and squiggles for Scott to make head or tail of it. "S-see here, there, uh, is a foreign s-strand in his, uh, results."

Scott couldn't see what he was referring to, even when he helpfully pointed to a particular section of comparison.

"I think I speak for all of us when I say we can't see a thing, Brains," Not-Dad. "But we'll take your word for it. What does it mean?"

"Quite, uh, honestly, Mr Tracy, I-I've never seen this before," Other-Brains admitted. "H-however, I believe the answer, uh, lies with the, uh, technology that he a-arrived with."

"You've been poking at my gear?" Scott demanded, stepping forwards. Mrs Tracy put her hand on his arm lightly.

"J-Just a cursory, uh, glance." Other-Brains still didn't sound at all repentant for his intrusions. "Enough to, uh, tell that y-your technology is nothing l-like, uh, ours."

"So, what, he's an alien?" Other-Alan asked. It was such an Alan-like – _his_ Alan-like – accusation that something in Scott's chest _hurt_.

"I, uh, believe John w-would be, uh, better to explain," Other-Brains deferred. "Mr Tracy?"

"I'm not sure about that, Brains," Not-Dad disagreed. "It's one thing showing him our home, but John is in a top secret location. We can't reveal that on a whim."

"O-on the contrary, Mr Tracy, i-if John and I are, uh, correct, he is a-already fully a-aware of John's, uh, location."

"What?" Other-Scott snapped, his hand landing sharply on Scott's shoulder. "How?" His fingers dug in tightly, too tightly to be shaken off without the use of force, and Mrs Tracy's hand was still lightly resting on his arm.

Scott was more concerned about what they were saying. _John_ and _location_ automatically signalled Thunderbird Five, but this wasn't his John. Whatever was going on here, despite his uniform International Rescue had yet to be mentioned and he had been intending on keeping it that way, unwilling to bring that sort of information to the attention of a group of individuals too weird and bizarre to trust.

"I want _you_ to explain, Brains," Not-Dad ordered. "I refuse to involve John in a situation this delicate."

"I-if you, uh, say so, Mr Tracy." Other-Brains was clearly disappointed at not having back-up for his explanation, but Scott didn't care who said it at this point as long as it was an answer. "Well, there, uh, is a theory a-amongst astrophysicists k-known colloquially a-as the, uh, multiverse theory. It a-addresses the theorem that, uh, there are multiple universes. John is, uh, better versed i-in it th-than I, but, uh, I know enough to, uh, believe that this is o-our answer."

"He's from a parallel universe?" Other-Alan exploded. "No way, Brains. That's ridiculous!"

"I, uh, did say it was f-fantastical," Other-Brains reminded him.

"Yes, Brains, but this seems very far-fetched," Other-Virgil pointed out. "Suppose that's true; how did he get here?"

"Well, uh, travel between these, uh, theoretical u-universes has not been, uh, investigated, so u-unless Scott's universe has been, uh, experimenting in the field it is most likely that the, uh, two u-universes temporarily, uh, collided and Scott fell th-through a r-resulting fissure."

"I don't remember falling through any fissures," Scott protested. "I had just left," he paused, still determined to leave International Rescue out of the conversation, even if Other-Brains was alluding to something similar with Other-John, "my plane and was on my way out of the hangar. Then I woke up here!"

"The 'plane' in question wouldn't be Thunderbird One, by any chance?" an unfamiliar voice asked. It was slightly distorted, as though coming through a speaker. The gentle touch on his arm and the talon grip on his shoulder did nothing to stop Scott tensing.

"What do you mean?" he snarled, looking around for the owner of the new voice. Nothing had changed, no-one had entered the room without his knowledge-

Other-Brains had his left arm held at a weird angle, the face of his watch pointed directly towards Scott. Instead of the ancient, analogue dial he expected to see there, a man's head was visible. He had a shock of platinum blond hair, but Scott's attention was caught by the blue hat perched slightly lopsidedly atop his head.

They'd scrapped those hats years ago, one of Dad's flights of fancy they had all been glad to ditch with a uniform upgrade.

"John!" Not-Dad sounded furious. "Brains, I said we would not be involving John in this!"

"As Brains said, Father, there's no point." The blond man – Other-John, recognisable as the fifth portrait hanging on the wall even if he was wearing civilian clothes in that, rather than what looked suspiciously like a proto-IR uniform in Other-Brains' watch – seemed unbothered at his father's fury. "This Scott is another universe's equivalent to our Scott. According to the clothes he was wearing when you found him, that includes being the pilot of Thunderbird One for International Rescue."

"If this is all true," Scott interrupted, choosing to chew through the International Rescue bit and the fact that there was a Thunderbird One here _later_. "All these parallel universes and colliding universes and falling through fissures into other universes stuff. What about my brothers? Aside from one," he wasn't willing to give any names out yet, even if Other-Brains and Other-John, at least, seemed to be sharp enough to make a correct assumption "they were all in the house when I got back. Wouldn't this 'fissure' have swallowed them, too?"

It was an outlandish theory. The idea that he'd fallen through into some parallel universe and was now with an alternate version of his family – a version that still had their father, his brain pointed out unhappily – was ludicrous. But it was a theory. He'd heard Alan mention it once, although the teenager had been more interested in the prospect of aliens in their own universe than another one at that moment in time. They were colonising Mars, pushing other expeditions further afield in the Solar System. Space travel was an expensive luxury, but it was a luxury available to anyone with the money, not just the strictest trained of astronauts. Further exploration of the universe was underway, but nothing had ever _touched_ the concept of other universes.

Yet, in the absence of anything more solid, Scott was willing to cling to the theory Other-Brains and Other-John were presenting. As long as his brothers were safe.

"You were found in our Thunderbird One's hangar," Other-John informed him, and Not-Dad did _not_ seem happy at that bit of information leaking out, from his attempt to interrupt. Other-John ignored him. "If you were in your own Thunderbird One's hangar when the collision occurred, that means that you were simply displaced from the location in your home to the identical location in ours. On that basis, if your brothers were also transported, they would have appeared in their respective locations in our home as well. Seeing as they haven't, I think it's safe to assume that you are the only one that fell through."

"But-" That was a lot of supposition, and Scott was not willing to stop searching on the _assumption_ that just because what happened to him hadn't happened to them, didn't mean nothing had happened to them.

"However, to be safe, I have included additional parameters into Thunderbird Five's algorithm to locate any mentions of people appearing out of nowhere, their names, assuming their names are the same as ours, or any other similar phenomena, so if they have ended up elsewhere, I'll pick it up," Other-John continued. "If they're here, I'll find them. If they're not, that explains why they haven't contacted you."

It was practically a moot point to name drop Thunderbird Five at this point, as far as Scott was concerned, more interested and reassured by Other-John's calm assessment of the possibilities and the measures he'd made to handle them, reluctantly nodding that yes, their names were the same. Not-Dad, on the other hand, seemed almost apoplectic as he stood rapidly from his desk.

"I did not authorise you to talk about the Thunderbirds, John!" the man thundered. "You have no proof that this Scott has links to an International Rescue of his own, and even if he did, there is no guarantee that they are the same!"

"Yes, Father." Scott didn't like the tone Other-John adopted, one that seemed almost used to scoldings. Dad wouldn't have been like that with them if he was still around and in charge of International Rescue… would he?

Deciding not to dwell on those thoughts, and also finding himself unexpectedly infuriated by Not-Dad's temper flaring at Other-John, Scott glanced around the room and found something unexpectedly familiar.

Two lamps sat innocently on one wall, perfectly spaced for someone of his height to stand between and hold onto – or pull down.

It probably wasn't his smartest idea – in fact, he could hear Virgil and John in his head telling him emphatically _not_ to do it – but his reckless streak had never listened to reason. He gently removed the light touch of Mrs Tracy from his arm, and twisted sharply to dislodge Other-Scott's grip before striding purposefully over to the lamps. Muscle memory dictated his movement more than conscious thought, his arms jarring as the lamps did not pull _down_ , but a switch depressed beneath his fingers nonetheless, and to a chorus of disbelieving – and frustrated, in some cases – voices, the room disappeared in a smooth rotation to reveal Other-Scott's launch tube.

Or should have done, if it was the same as home. What he had not expected, as he automatically stepped forwards, off of the plate before it could spin back around, was to be immediately greeted by the sleek grey form of Thunderbird One herself.

Immediately he could see differences to his own 'bird. The pilot seat was inside the cockpit, not extended for boarding, and the opening resembled a door more than a viewing window. VTOL jets were positioned in different places, there were no letters dictating fuel intake, areas of danger and other basic safety information, and her shape was very slightly different.

However, small differences aside, there was no doubt that this was Thunderbird One. Even ignoring the bold white lettering proclaiming her as such, there was no doubting the grey hull, blue engine housing and, most distinctively of all, the vibrant red nose cone.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" Other-Scott asked from behind him. Scott made a noise of agreement – even if she wasn't _his_ , she was close enough that visually, she looked just as stunning. "I guess you have the same access point? You gave Dad quite the shock when you found the entrance to her hangar like that."

"Near enough," he confirmed as Other-Scott stepped up beside him, leaning his arms over the railing as he also gazed at Thunderbird One. "The portrait of the rocket goes to Two?"

"Virgil's crazy slide," Other-Scott said, bemused.

"That's one way of putting it," Scott agreed. "I didn't see Three or Four's entrances."

"Your Four has an access from the lounge?" Other-Scott sounded surprised. "Dad refused to put one in. Gordon has to take the passenger route to Two."

"A fish tank," Scott admitted. "Gordon refuses to keep fish in there, though. Says it would be too traumatic for them. He stole John's model Stingray and put that in there instead."

Other-Scott chuckled, the first time he'd been anything other than serious since Scott had first seen him.

"That sounds like something Gordon would do," he admitted. "Your John let him?"

"Said it was a more accurate place for it then the stand in his room," Scott confirmed.

"And that sounds like something John would say," Other-Scott grinned, before falling quiet for a moment, studying his 'bird. "Do you think they're right?" he asked. "That you're from a parallel universe?"

It still sounded ridiculous said out loud.

"I don't know," Scott admitted. "But it's the best guess we've got and sounds marginally better than insanity." How he was going to get home, if he really had ended up in another universe, was another matter entirely.

"I suppose that's true," Other-Scott said. "But we'll work something out."

"Scott!" Not-Dad's voice echoed through the hangar as the man strode towards them. He did not look pleased, and they shared a look.

"Which one of us does he mean?" Scott wondered out loud. Other-Scott shrugged, clearly bracing himself for a storm. Once again, Scott was left to wonder if it would be the same if Dad was still around – would he be used to disapproval, and a father ruling the roost with an iron fist?

He shoved those thoughts away firmly and straightened his spine. Not-Dad might have his own son contrite, but he had faced down too many people who saw themselves as his superior to cower in front of a man with no relation to him.

"What are you doing in here?" Not-Dad demanded. "How did you find the entrance?" Behind him, at a more sedate pace but intrigue clear in their eyes – exact colour matches to Scott's own brothers – were Other-Virgil, Other-Gordon and Other-Alan. Brains brought up the rear, his watch still broadcasting Other-John's face. Scott was getting fed up with all of the questions.

"Because I'm Scott Tracy," he declared, stepping forwards, away from the Thunderbird behind him and towards the man challenging him. "Because that is _my ship_ and I know how to get to her." He expected Other-Scott to protest, remind him that it wasn't _his_ Thunderbird One because they were in the wrong universe for that, but he didn't.

Not-Dad was shorter than him. Not by much, just enough for him to realise he was looking ever so slightly down to meet his eyes. Did that mean he had outgrown Dad, a final growth spurt just after the Zero-X and the tragedy that brought?

"How dare you take that tone with me!" Not-Dad snapped, fury flashing through grey eyes. Behind him, two pairs of brown eyes and one pair of blue had widened in surprise. "Does your father permit you to talk back to him like that?" All at once, Scott's temper flared.

"My father is _GONE_!" he shouted, fist flying to the side and connecting with the wall of the hangar. "You might _look_ like him, but you're _not_ him, and I won't _treat_ you like him!"

Silence followed his words, even after the echoes of his yells finished bouncing off the hangar walls. His own breathing was loud, too loud to his own ears, and his knuckles started to throb as he felt everyone's eyes on him.

Other-Alan spoke first, because he was Other- _Alan_ and of course he did, for all that this Alan wasn't a teenager and should at least have some modicum of common sense.

"What do you mean, he's gone?"

Scott ignored him, finding Not-Dad's – _Never-_ Dad's – eyes again. They were shocked, horrified, even, and seeing that expression on a face that looked just like his father's reminded him of the last time he'd seen his Dad look like that. When Mom died.

He had to get _out_.

Thunderbird One was behind him, offering haven except she wasn't _his_ Thunderbird One and he knew they would all crowd the cockpit, imprisoning him inside until he talked. He had no intention of ever talking, of telling these strangers wearing his family's names and almost-faces about how much it hurt. He'd never planned to tell them Dad was gone in the first place.

The two lamps stuck out of the wall, nearest Other-Scott. They'd lead back into the lounge, an unfamiliar place but one that it would at least take time for them to pursue him there, judging by how long it had taken them to join him in the hangar. He lunged forwards, found the catches on the lamps and spun the wall back around. Behind him, the silence broke, voices talking over voices in a cacophony that was shut out as soon as the rotation completed. Soundproofed walls. Nothing less than he'd expected.

"Oh, dearie, what happened?" He'd forgotten Mrs Tracy would still be there. "Oh, you poor thing. Look at your hand. Tin-Tin, be a darling."

"Of course, Mrs Tracy," the young woman said, finding her feet and hurrying across the room to him. "Oh, that looks nasty. I'll treat it right away." A touch on his elbow and his feet were moving of their own accord, following her down the stairs and through hallways he'd yet to learn until they arrived in a room he recognised.

The signs of his fight with Other-Scott had gone, gaps on the shelves where bottles had stood when he first woke the only indication that anything had happened in the room. As Tin-Tin directed him to sit in a chair, grabbing a bottle of disinfectant and a roll of bandages for knuckles he hadn't realised were bleeding, for all that they were throbbing in discontent, he caught sight of his uniform, still neatly folded.

His comm unit was on the top, and he reached for it to find it was too far away from where he was sat.

"I'm almost finished," Tin-Tin assured him. "You know," she continued. "If you open the window, there's a track that runs up towards a cliff. Only Scott ever goes up there – his brothers don't know about it."

Scott stared at her, realising for the first time that for all their differences, this young woman was likely this universe's version of Kayo.

"I don't think _he_ would like that you told me that," he said, unable to bring himself to address Not-Dad by any name. His voice cracked mid-sentence and he frowned. "He wants me under his watch."

"Oh, Scott," she replied, pulling the bandages tight. "He's worried." A delicate hand picked up his comm unit and pressed it into his uninjured hand. "I've known our Scott a long time," she added, closing his hand over the unit. "In all that time, I've only seen him cry once." By the time he had registered her words and raised a hand to his face, surprised to find it come away damp, she'd left the room.

Swiping at the tears angrily now that he knew they were there, he regarded the unit in his hand, and then the window. A place to himself was exactly what he needed, although the idea of using one of Other-Scott's escapes felt distinctly weird. Footsteps outside the room forced his decision – if they were going to find him in this state, he could at least attempt to make it a challenge.

The window opened easily, and soundlessly. Well-maintained, and he wondered how often Other-Scott used it, or if one of the others also had escape routes from the infirmary. Considering his own brothers, it was likely that they all did – one of the reasons Grandma had put their infirmary in a room with only one exit was because they were all terrible patients and one exit was infinitely easier to guard than multiple.

He remembered his lack of shoes only when bare feet met dirt, but he had no idea where Other-Scott kept his shoes, and no desire to go hunting. The route Tin-Tin had described stood out to him easily, a challenging terrain that he would have chosen himself even if he hadn't already known about it. Then again, this universe's version of him had done exactly that, once. Strapping the comm unit firmly to his wrist, finding familiar comfort in its snug fit and slight weight, he started up the trail.

It wasn't as challenging as it looked; once Scott found his rhythm it was almost easy, but as it was an escape route from the infirmary that made sense. Escape routes were useless if they couldn't be used. After only a few minutes he rounded a particularly aggressive-looking crag to find a hollow tucked behind it. The view was fantastic, jungles and volcanic crags combined with the ocean behind and the sky above. Down below, he could just about see a white building that had to be the villa, an oddly-shaped swimming pool set in front of it.

There was no doubt this was Other-Scott's secret escape.

He curled his legs in, out of sight of anyone that might be looking up the route, and tore his eyes away from the unfamiliar vista to focus on his comm unit. Logically, he knew it was useless. John would have been trying to get hold of him as soon as he woke from his cat nap, and if anything was going to get through to here – to _another universe_ – it would be the powerful signals of Thunderbird Five.

Scott didn't want to listen to logic. Despite being wrapped in bandages, his fingers found all the right places to activate the comm unit, and he waited with bated breath for it to connect. It took a while, connection symbol flashing orange as it searched for a signal to hook onto. International Rescue technology was as resourceful as the rest of them. Designed to be compatible with every known network in the world, as well as their own with Thunderbird Five at the heart, there were blessedly few places where signal was impossible. Here, on a Tracy Island, with a Thunderbird Five proven to be sending and receiving signals, there was no way his comm unit wouldn't be able to find a network to hijack.

The red symbol that eventually flashed up defied him, the slash through the connection symbol taunting him as it declared there were no networks in the area.

"Don't you _dare_!" he complained at it, shaking his wrist vigorously and resorting to fierce taps when the red symbol stayed steady. "There's a signal right _there_ , dammit!" he cursed, gesturing down towards where the villa lay. "And up _there_!" He motioned to the sky, where their Thunderbird Five undoubtably lurked. "How can you not find it at all? Dammit!"

He depressed the call button anyway, watching the hologram technology awaken, ready to beam his image to whoever was on the other end. With tearstained cheeks, scruffy pyjamas that weren't his, and a wrapped-up hand, he didn't want his image beaming anywhere, and quickly changed the setting to audio-only.

"Thunderbird Five?" he tried. "Come in, Thunderbird Five. John, are you there?"

The red symbol stubbornly remained, and his comms remained silent. He'd thought that at least Other-John would answer.

"John? Virgil are you there? Come on, guys, pick up! Gordon, can you hear me? Alan!" His voice cracked and he scrubbed at his face again, unsurprised but frustrated when it came back freshly damp. "Kayo? Grandma? Brains? Anyone, dammit!" He was begging and he knew it, tears seeping into his voice no matter how hard he tried to keep them up. "MAX? EOS! You're always hacking things you shouldn't, you damn AI. You've got to be here! Put me through to John. I know he's looking for me. Just… put me through, dammit!"

The red symbol never wavered, blocking him from his family no matter how much he cursed, threatened, _begged_ it.

"Why won't you _work_ , you stupid piece of junk?" he demanded. "It's only a goddamn universe in the way. Just one, stupid, measly, _universe_!"

A universe. An ever-expanding chasm of space that contained billions upon billions of galaxies, which themselves contained billions of stars and planets. They were colonising Mars. Thunderbird Three had managed to travel out as far as Jupiter. The distances were incredible; the wonder as Alan launched off to far-flung parts of their solar system never failed to strike Scott.

Those incredible distances didn't even make a fraction of the chasm between them now.

A chance collision of universes had thrown him across. Inter-universe travel wasn't even a daydream in the minds of their most advanced scientists, and from Other-John's words, this universe was the same.

Scott wasn't John, but he was reasonably handy with numbers and probabilities. The chances of another collision occurring that would send him home again were beyond remote. International Rescue made the impossible happen, but Scott was all too painfully aware that even they had limits. How did you rescue someone from another universe?

Would they even know where he was? It took Other-Brains and Other-John some leaps of logic, DNA testing between him and Other-Scott, and a grasp of the difference in their technology to reach the conclusion. All his family would have was the fact that he was gone. Without a trace. It would be even worse than Dad. At least they knew what had happened to Dad, had seen that cursed footage of the Zero-X exploding into infinite pieces with no body left to bury.

He had just vanished.

John would be blaming himself, cursing himself for going to take his next nap before ensuring Scott was safely in the house. He remembered what his brother had been like when Dad had gone, the weeks, months, of frantic searching and sleepless nights until he'd taken Three up and all but bust through the airlock to drag John back to Earth. He hadn't let him back up there until the space elevator was installed, one of Brains' pet projects that Dad had vetoed but Scott demanded because anything to bring their family closer together was a good thing.

He hoped one of the others would stop John tearing himself apart. His little brothers were strong, he had to believe that. If Other-John was right and they weren't also here, somewhere in this strange universe with its indecipherable technology. No, Scott wanted them at home. He wanted the four of them to be together, even if he wasn't there.

But he would be, he promised. No matter that the distance between them was insurmountable, no matter that there were some things even International Rescue couldn't do. Nothing, not even the damn universe – or however many universes were involved in this fiasco – was going to stop Scott Tracy going home to his brothers.

He just had to figure out _how_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're now far enough into the fic that I can safely credit ak47stylegirl and her fic [Thunderbirds Meet Thunderbirds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15648192/chapters/36343827) for inspiring the premise behind this fic. While there are many large differences between that fic and this one (and will continue to be so), it's doubtful I would ever have considered throwing Scott into TOS if I hadn't read that fic.


	4. Chapter 4

"What is that projecting onto?" Scott jumped, looking up at the cliff above him. Other-Scott was perched there, regarding his comm unit curiously. "Brains was right; your technology really is nothing like ours."

"Not that it's doing me any good here," Scott groused, swiping through the symbol to extinguish it. "Stupid thing can't even connect to your Thunderbird Five."

"You want to talk to John?" Other-Scott sounded surprised, but dropped off the ledge to join him in the hollow.

"My John," Scott corrected, letting his arm drop to his side. "But I thought my gear would at least link into your network."

"Network?" Other-Scott asked. "We have a network of agents that work for us, but what do you mean about your gear linking into that?"

Scott gaped at him.

"Not that sort of network," he said. "The communications one." Other-Scott still looked blank, and Scott facepalmed. "You don't have one. Of course, different technology. _Really_ different technology."

Other-Scott frowned at him thoughtfully, before unbuckling his watch and offering it. It was Scott's turn to look blank.

"It won't reach another universe," Other-Scott said, apologetically. "But if you need to talk to our Thunderbird Five, this will work." Scott took it carefully, turning it over in his hands. It looked like a normal, antique watch, but having seen Other-Brains' watch transform into a video link, Scott knew there had to be more to it than that.

"How does it work?" he asked after a moment, eyeing the various buttons on the side. Other-Scott held out his hand for it back and Scott obliged.

"It's set to Thunderbird Five's frequency," he started, "but it can be changed to any other communicator, Thunderbird, Pod vehicle, Mobile Control or Base by adjusting the frequency with this dial." He twisted the one on the furthest left, and the clock face vanished, to be replaced with a string of numbers. A burst of static erupted from it. "Or you can tune into a radio station, but Dad doesn't like us doing that." He turned the knob back to where it was, and the numbers flashed in time with a dial tone. A quick press of the furthest right knob and it stopped, restoring the watch face. "That starts and stops transmission," he explained. "The middle dial controls the time; after all, it is also a functioning watch." He handed it back and Scott looked it over again, lightly tapping the three knobs thoughtfully. "You can borrow it if you want, but it does have a location transmitter installed, which Dad can access whenever he wants."

Scott was grateful for the warning. He had no intention of dealing with Not-Dad again any time soon, well aware that it would be explosive. Still, a communicator, even if it couldn't connect to where he really wanted it to, was an offering he couldn't bring himself to decline.

A light on the face started to flash lilac, and Other-Scott winced.

"Whoops," he muttered, taking the watch back out of Scott's hand. "John must have noticed that I contacted Thunderbird Five," he explained. "Lilac means John," he continued. "Yellow is Virgil, white is Alan, orange is Gordon, brown is Brains and gold is Dad."

Scott sighed. "You couldn't at least use the same colours?" he muttered. Other-Scott shot him a questioning look even as he answered his brother's call.

"Hi, Scott," the blond man greeted. "You called?"

"Just showing Scott our communicators," Other-Scott explained. "His doesn't work here; the technology must be too different."

"It looked it, from what Brains showed me," Other-John agreed. "Is he still with you?"

"I'm here," Scott said, cutting off whatever Other-Scott was about to say. He leaned in. "Any sign of them?"

"Oh, hi there," Other-John said. "No, none of my new parameters have caught anything. I'll keep an ear out, but it's seeming more and more likely that you're the only one to have fallen through." Some of the tension seemed out of Scott's shoulders.

"I hope so," he agreed, settling back in the hollow again. "What can you tell me about this multiverse theory?" Other-Scott passed the watch back to him.

"I'll go keep the other fellas away," he interjected before Other-John could start talking. "Talk to you later, John."

"Bye, Scott," Other-John acknowledged, before turning his attention back to Scott as Other-Scott slipped away. "Well, Scott, the easiest way to describe it is to imagine a big glass box full of water. Inside the box of water, there are some objects floating around. Most of the time they don't touch, but occasionally you get a collision between two of them. What actually happens during those collisions is unknown; until you appeared, there's been no proof to support the theory at all. Not," he added hurriedly, "that Brains or I have any intention of revealing your existence. We'd rather see you get home than be reduced to a lab rat."

"I appreciate that," Scott said dryly. "Except I'm going to have to play the part of one for you and your Brains anyway."

"Well, that's true," Other-John admitted. "The chances of an identical collision reversing the effects naturally is astronomically slim, so getting you home will require us to somehow force a similar situation. However, we'll be sure to remain humane and focused on returning you home before any other research."

Scott chuckled. "If your Brains is anything like mine, he'll be doing it simultaneously. As long as it gets me home, I don't care."

Other-John let slip a small smile of his own before frowning. "You realise that this is an entirely new division of research. It very well might be years." Scott was trying not to think about that too hard.

"In that case, what are we waiting for?" he asked, clambering to his feet to find Other-Brains.

"Brains has already started," Other-John informed him. "He's gathering what data he can find from where you were found in Thunderbird One's hangar, and the anomaly in your DNA from the sample he already took. I suspect you don't want to hear this, but interrupting him will only slow him down. He'll find you when he needs you."

Their voices were different, but Scott could easily imagine John – _his_ John – saying much the same thing.

"You really are like him," he said, sitting back down. Privately he was relieved he didn't need to go back to the villa; after his outburst in Thunderbird One's hangar, he was determined to avoid the family for as long as possible.

"Like who?" Other-John asked, even though the fact that he knew exactly who Scott was talking about was written all over his face. Scott told him as much.

"You know," he accused.

"I'm as much like him as you are like Scott," Other-John pointed out. "As the two of you are twins in personality just as much as appearance, barring the effects from different life events, it follows that the same would be true for myself and your John."

_Different life events._ It was the closest either Other-Scott or Other-John had come to acknowledging his outburst.

"You haven't asked about it," he observed. Other-John shrugged.

"Would you tell me if I did?"

"No," was Scott's immediate reaction, although there was a part of him that wondered if he would, if the right questions were asked. No, better not to go there. He'd ripped the wound far enough open already; there was no need to worsen it further.

"I do try not to waste my breath," Other-John responded. "I meant it when I said you're just like my Scott."

Scott thought back to the hangar, and Other-Scott's reaction to Not-Dad's anger.

"Am I?" he asked. He couldn't imagine ever being contrite like that.

"You attacked each other because you thought the other was a threat to your brothers," Other-John pointed out. "Whatever you've both been through, your priorities are the same. Or are you going to tell me I'm wrong?" Scott met his eyes steadily.

"You know the answer to that."

"Sometimes it's nice to hear someone admit I'm right," Other-John shrugged with a grin, before he turned away suddenly. "International Rescue here. What's the problem?"

He didn't cut the connection, and Scott didn't either, listening to a garbled panic in the background, which Other-John responded to with calm, measured words for a few moments before turning back to Scott. Before Scott could ask, instincts screaming for him to get to Thunderbird One and launch, the blond man pressed a finger to his lips.

"There's a distress call from a power plant, Father," he said after a moment, finger back down out of sight. He must have connected to the villa to relay the information, without breaking Scott's own line. "Temperature is rising fast and the blast doors have slammed shut, trapping two workers inside. Local services won't be able to get them out in time."

Scott couldn't hear whatever Not-Dad had to say in return. Whether that was intentional on Other-John's part or a happy accident he wasn't quite sure – if it was his John he'd know it was intentional, but he didn't know what this universe's technology was capable of, although he supposed if anyone could bring the most out of it, it would be John's counterpart – but he was glad. He couldn't quite reconcile the man against his memories of his own father, and it was bringing up too many unwelcome thoughts that he didn't care for.

"Thunderbird One's about to launch," Other-John said after a period of silence. Scott peered around the rock to take a better look at the villa below, and was unsurprised to see the swimming pool retracting. It was weird to actually witness it for once – no-one else ever piloted One if he had any say in the matter, and he didn't recall the last time he'd seen the launch process. A roar of engines – similar but not the same as his own 'bird's cry – and the sleek shape of International Rescue's first response craft soared into the sky. It was a breath-taking sight, even though he was mentally cataloguing all the subtle differences in the moment he had before she was gone, smashing through the sound barrier effortlessly.

It was a whole different way to appreciate her speed.

"What's her top speed?" he asked. Other-John made a curious noise.

"What do you think?" he asked, and Scott sighed, pulling his eyes away from where she'd last been visible to look back at the blond man, whose attempt at fishing for information on his own Thunderbird was far from subtle.

"Mach 19," he said. "Officially."

"And unofficially?" Other-John probed. Scott shrugged.

"Never pushed her to see," he admitted. The airspeed record was his Dad's, and he had no intention of breaking it. If there was any craft that _could_ , surpassing the TV-21, it would be Thunderbird One, but he didn't want to. It was a piece of his father he couldn't bring himself to overwrite. "Mach 20."

"Mach 19.6," Other-John said. "Thunderbird Two's preparing to launch. Virgil and Alan are taking Pod Three with the DOMO and Mole."

"Alan?" Scott couldn't hold back his surprise. "Not Gordon? And Pod Three? Domo? Mole?" One sentence on a subject he should know better than the back of his hand – _did_ know better, back at home – told him that while Thunderbird One appeared largely the same, there were clearly fundamental differences in their main gear.

"You'd have chosen Gordon instead?" Other-John asked. He was probing for more information because of course he was. Any John would be a sponge for information, leeching it from whatever sources he could.

"Of course," Scott replied, giving him the information because if there was one person in this universe that needed to know, it was the monitor on board Thunderbird Five, listening out for signs of his brothers. "Alan's just a kid. Gordon's more experienced and doesn't have homework to do."

"So your Gordon… is up for it?" Other-John asked, fishing around further. "And Alan – homework?"

"Why wouldn't he-" Scott cut himself off as a deeper rumble presumably signalled the other Thunderbird's take-off, out of sight. "You don't have hydrofoils here, do you?" he asked suspiciously. Other-John's face fell.

"I was hoping there were more differences in life experiences," he admitted. "Gordon's back will never heal properly. Dad only sends him if Thunderbird Four is needed, or all hands are."

"And he hasn't driven him mad?" Scott asked, disbelieving. "Gordon would murder me slowly and creatively if I kept him grounded like that." Not-Dad's temper and fury at being addressed as an equal rather than a superior came back to him and he frowned.

"If _you_ kept him grounded like that?" Other-John's fishing couldn't get any more blatant, and Scott glared at him.

"Stop asking questions you know the answer to," he snapped. Other-John held his hands up in mock-surrender. An object on a cord was in one of his hands, Scott noticed. It looked like an ancient microphone.

"I don't know the answer," he defended himself. "I have suppositions and ideas, but not answers. I can't actually read minds, you know." Scott slumped back into his hollow and rubbed a hand over his face again.

"Yes, my Dad is gone. Yes, that means I'm in charge of International Rescue. Yes, that means I'm CEO of Tracy Industries," he bit out. "And yes, that means I'm the legal guardian of my fifteen year old kid brother who should be worrying about school and not launching a damn rocket into space several times a week!"

The watch was silent. Scott adamantly refused to look at it, to see what face Other-John was wearing – or if he'd hung up.

"No wonder you clashed with Dad." Evidently Other-John hadn't done the latter. "Scott's just arriving at the danger zone, so Dad should be in the office at the moment. Normally I'd say Gordon would be with him, but I know you've got him curious. Scott grabbed his spare watch, and I don't think Dad's realised yet, but Gordon's crafty enough to notice that sort of thing."

"You think he's looking for me?" he asked, reluctantly looking back at the watch. Other-John shrugged.

"Unlikely," he said. "He knows better than to chase Scott when he's in a mood. More likely, he's lying in wait for when you decide to return." Scott groaned. Other-Gordon had been the quietest so far, and a quiet Gordon meant warning signs. Amber eyes had been watching him, though, scrutinising him perhaps the most closely of all the Other-Tracys, and part of Scott had been waiting for it to come to a head. Apparently that time was now.

"My John knows how to keep his mouth shut," he said. Other-John chuckled.

"I do, too," he promised. "They won't hear anything from me unless they have to."

"They won't have to," Scott growled, looking down at the watch as he tapped at his own communicator uselessly. The red _no signal_ symbol greeted him and he swiped it away angrily. "Does this thing have map capabilities?" he asked. "The entrances to One and Two are the same, but the house itself is nothing like home."

"Not Three?" Other-John sounded surprised. "Odd that not all of them are the same."

"Odd that your Four doesn't even have her own entrance," Scott retorted, although now he knew more about Other-Gordon – or specifically, that they were treating him like he was made of glass – he could see why. What sort of family dynamic they had that Other-Gordon hadn't driven them all totally insane in revenge was one he wasn't too fond of contemplating.

"Thunderbird Four lives in Pod Four," Other-John said, sounding slightly confused. "Why does she need her own entrance?"

Pod Four? And earlier, Other-John had said Pod Three was carrying a _Domo_ and a _Mole_.

"You call Thunderbird Two's modules pods," he realised. Other-John blinked at him.

"Say," he said, curiously. Scott sensed another not so subtle probing on the way. "You heard the briefing I gave Father. What would you have done? If you were with your own technology, I mean?"

"Thunderbird One and Two," he said, not even having to think about it. "Gordon with Virgil, taking Module Two. Keep up to date information through Thunderbird Five and assess the situation upon arrival. Configure the PODs as required once Two arrives and get those people out. Get John on finding out how it happened and who was responsible." Kayo, Lady Penelope and Parker, too.

"You think it's sabotage?" Other-John asked, surprised. Scott shook his head.

"Accidents are usually caused by cutting corners," he said, jaw locking. "Imbeciles who can't observe safety regulations are a danger to everyone."

"You'd shut them down?" Other-John sounded astonished. "Your International Rescue has that sort of authority?" Scott scoffed.

"Don't be ridiculous," he said. "We don't have that authority and we don't want it. There's enough paperwork already." Urgh, the paperwork. Who would be doing that while he was gone, or would it just be piling up in neglect? "We just give tip offs to the GDF and they handle it."

"The GDF?" Other-John queried. Scott decided to secure the watch to his wrist before he dropped it.

"Is _nothing_ the same here?" he groused. "Global Defence Force. The World Government's military organisation."

"International Rescue exists," Other-John reminded him, and he sighed.

"No good to me when your tech is basically alien," he pointed out, adopting Alan's – and apparently Other-Alan's - default. "This watch is _analogue_."

"Analogue?" Other-John asked, frowning. Scott stared at him.

"Round dial of numbers?" he explained hesitantly.

"Well, yes. What else would it be?" Other-John queried, as though the idea of any other type of watch was bizarre.

"Digital?" Scott offered. Other-John's face went blank, again, and he buried his face in his hands. "You're kidding."

"You have a name for ours, so it's not entirely… _alien_ ," Other-John pointed out, clearly as enamoured with the idea of aliens as his John.

"It's ancient, is what it is," he grumbled. "We stopped using analogue clocks half a century ago. I don't even know how to read the things!" Virgil did, and John of course devoured anything related to communications, but Scott himself had never paid attention when Grandma had tried to show him on her own grandfather's ancient watch; he'd been busy with other things, like raising four younger brothers.

"Half a century?" Other-John asked. "Is your tech different because it's futuristic?" Scott shook his head.

"I don't think so." He tapped at the watch absent-mindedly. "I'm trained in a lot of old tech, because not everywhere is at the forefront of technology, but I've never seen anything like this stuff."

"We'll just have to train you up, then," Other-John said. "The fellas won't mind."

Scott could think of one man who seemed like he _would_.

"You never said if you could show me a map of the place," he said instead. "I need some shoes." The island was tropical, but that didn't stop the dirt congealing on the soles of his feet from feeling decidedly uncomfortable.

"You're planning on raiding Scott's?" Other-John sounded amused. Scott thought he might be. John would have been.

"Some other clothes, too," he admitted, and Other-John laughed.

"I don't have a map that labels the rooms," he said. "But here-" His face disappeared and was replaced with a very basic, black and white map of the villa. In the small watch face, it looked very cramped. In one of the rooms, a blue light started flashing. "That's Scott's room." Scott squinted at it.

"Can't you make it bigger?" he complained.

"Not if you want to see how to get there," Other-John told him and he groaned.

"You don't have zoom and scroll?"

"Not on the watches." Scott was starting to feel lucky that was even an option on _any_ device. Maybe this stuff wasn't out of his history lessons, but it felt far behind the technology he was used to. He poked at his own communicator again, and snarled at it when it merrily presented him with the red _no signal_ declaration again.

"You okay?" Other-John asked. His face was still hidden by the map, but he sounded concerned.

"Fine," he growled. "Stupid thing."

"If you say so." Scott got the feeling he didn't believe him.

Well, for the moment he had a plan. Get back to the infirmary, navigate his way through the villa to Other-Scott's room, and find something that wasn't pyjamas to wear.

"Keep me updated," he ordered, and got an acknowledging _F.A.B_ before the line cut. At least, he assumed it had. He didn't know the technology well enough to confirm it, but it didn't matter either way. Letting his wrist fall, he pushed himself to his feet and began the climb back down to the villa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we've started to really play with one of my favourite things about writing this fic: the differences! I'm far too interested in things like this, and for the sake of the story (aka torturing Scott) I will be emphasising and exaggerating as many differences as I can between the two canons, whether they be in relationships, technology or society, because quite frankly I love this sandbox. As my sister told me when I gushed about this fic to her, my inner scientist and academic has taken to this with glee a la "compare and contrast the differences in [xyz] between TOS and TAG". There will be a lot of this to come.


	5. Chapter 5

The problem with plans was their tendency to go wrong. Finding his way back to the infirmary was no challenge – the white building made for a clear target, and the trail was clear enough to Scott's eye. Getting back inside was no issue, either. The window was left ajar, simple enough to silently pull open and slip through.

Finding Other-Gordon perched on one of the chairs, one of Scott's bracers in his hands, was not part of the plan, and he mentally cursed himself. He'd escaped from the infirmary, so it would be obvious to anyone with a brain cell that he'd return that way, too, especially with his gear there. Gordon had many brain cells, which he frequently used in unorthodox ways, and Other-John had even warned him that Other-Gordon was crafty.

"Welcome back," the ginger greeted him calmly. "The others are on a mission." Scott swiped the gear from him, carefully running his hands over the remote control units to make sure they were still intact. He didn't know their range, and doubted that even Brains had managed to make something that could get signals through multiple universes – especially as his comm unit failed to do so – but he was still cautious about activating them. Just in case.

"I saw." Technically he'd only seen One's launch, Two's runway presumably out of sight from Other-Scott's hiding place. "Power plant meltdown." Other-Gordon's gazed briefly flicked to his wrist, where Other-Scott's watch still sat.

"Has John found your brothers?" he asked, and Scott shook his head. "Ah well, no news is good news, right? If John can't find them, they're still safe at home."

Unwilling to engage in further conversation, he scooped up the rest of his uniform, tempted for a moment to put it on for comfort's sake but discarding the notion, before glancing at the map in the watch face and heading out of the room.

"You're not going to put that back on, are you?" Other-Gordon asked him, following. Scott ignored him, following the hallway almost to the kitchen, where Other-Kyrano was doing something with the odd contraption in the middle of the floor, before making the right turn towards the stairs. "Father's in the lounge." For someone who had been almost silent the entire time up until then, Other-Gordon was suddenly making a lot of noise.

"I'm not going there," he told him firmly.

"You're stealing Scott's clothes." Other-Gordon didn't bat an eyelid. "I'll help." Scott wished he was surprised, but it was a _Gordon_ thing to do. "Here, this way." Unlike his father, Other-Gordon had a preference for the stairs, which suited Scott just fine. He had no issues with elevators, but the one at the end of the hallway was another example of the different technology. Stairs were far more trustworthy.

Last time, Not-Dad had guided him quickly and firmly into the lounge, but Other-Gordon strode ahead after reaching the top of the stairs, away from the door to the lounge, and turned into an extended corridor with six doors all set into the right-hand side. These, according to the map in his watch, were six equally-sized rooms, all with smaller rooms set into them. The second one from the far end contained the flashing blue light indicating that it was Other-Scott's room. Presumably, that put the rest of them as the other four brothers' rooms, and probably Not-Dad's room.

"My room," Other-Gordon waved vaguely to the door immediately in front of the branch of hallway they'd just left. "John's is that one." He indicated the door next to his, at the end of the corridor, before continuing to walk. "Alan's, Virgil's, and here we are! Scott's." He pushed open the door with no hesitation and strode inside. Scott checked the watch face again. It agreed with Other-Gordon, so he followed.

Even without either guides, he wouldn't have had any problems identifying the room's owner. Images of various, fast, planes decorated the walls – many unrecognisable to him, but unmistakable in their theme regardless. Blue was the prominent colour, edging its way around the room and various screens and alcoves set into the walls. The bed linen was also blue. Towards the far wall, the en suite took out a reasonably small chunk of the room.

Other-Gordon didn't wait for him to adjust to the reality that yes, this room felt like a room he could see himself having, heading over to a closet door and throwing it open.

"Clothes," he announced. Scott was slightly concerned at just how nonchalantly the younger man was rummaging through his older brother's room, although, he was a Gordon. His Gordon was probably just as likely to do that. Well, that was one of the hazards of younger brothers, he supposed. Thoughts like that just made him remember just how far away from his own younger brothers he was, and he stepped forwards to the closet to look at Other-Scott's wardrobe before he started dwelling over things he currently couldn't change.

Clearly, his counterpart liked rollnecks and shirts. There was quite a collection of them, ranging from simple mono-coloured designs to rather louder, patterned, offerings. Scott dismissed the rollnecks immediately, hunting through the shirts until he found a mono-coloured one that felt like it might be some sort of cotton, rather than silk. Silk was for special occasions – business meetings, and formal events he attended only because he had to. The selected shirt was some sort of yellow-brown colour, not his first choice but apparently the only blue Other-Scott owned was in the forms of rollnecks and cardigans.

Ignoring Other-Gordon's presence in the room, he shrugged off the by now muddy pyjama top he'd woken in and pulled the shirt on, leaving the top buttons undone and rolling the sleeves up until it mimicked his preferred style at home. There were no jeans in sight, so with some reluctance he found the least-smart pair of pants, which were at least dark blue, and in concession to company retreated into the en suite long enough to shed the pyjama bottoms and pull them on.

"How long have you been wearing those underpants?" Other-Gordon asked him when he emerged, and Scott rolled his eyes.

"There is a line," he said firmly. "Unless there are some new, unworn ones lying around, I'll stick with what I'm wearing, thanks. Now, shoes?" Other-Gordon pointed to the next door over, sitting himself down on the bed and letting his feet rest on the headrest. Scott paused, the position familiar.

"Your back bothering you?" he asked. Amber eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"How do you know about my back?" Other-Gordon asked slowly. Scott yanked open the indicated door and glanced over the various shoes in a growing state of despair. No sneakers. How could there be a Scott who didn't own any sneakers?

"Hydrofoil accident," he said. "Four months in hospital."

Other-Gordon let out a noise that sounded almost like a hiss, which Scott ignored as he poked at the shoes dubiously. What was with all the smart shoes or sandals? Did Other-Scott have nothing in between?

"Scott wouldn't have told you," Other-Gordon mused out loud. "Nor would John. You haven't spoken to anyone else." He sighed. "Your Gordon, too?"

"When he was sixteen," Scott confirmed. "Finished his career in W.A.S.P. before it even started. They said he'd never walk again." Other-Gordon made a noise of agreement.

"They said that about me, too," he said as Scott finally accepted that a pair of sneakers were not about to materialise and, as with the pants, grabbed the least-smart pair of shoes and a random pair of what felt like cotton socks. "I guess they were wrong."

Scott let himself smile. "Gordon's got the gold medal to prove it." Remembering the accident, and the months of pain after it, hurt. Remembering the moment Gordon stood on the first place podium, gold medal around his neck and American national anthem blaring out all around them barely two years later filled him with pride.

"So do I," Other-Gordon said, watching him pull on the shoes and tie the laces firmly. "Father's going to have a fit if he sees you looking like that, you know." Scott glanced down at himself, light brown shirt still unbuttoned at the top and sleeves rolled up to three-quarter length, untucked over dark blue slacks and a pair of black shoes. It was almost just like home.

"I don't see the problem," he retorted. Other-Gordon eyed him dubiously.

"Well, it's your funeral," he conceded, stretching out and shifting into a sitting position. "I'll show you the guest rooms." Scott gathered up his uniform and waited for him to stand, leading the way out of the room and closing the door behind them. "Dad's room." Other-Gordon gestured to the last door on that stretch of the corridor, and then headed down the hallway opposite, stopping at the first door. "Kyrano got this room ready for you."

Right by Not-Dad's room. Scott sighed but entered the room. It was a nice enough room, the same size as Other-Scott's with a queen-size bed, en suite, and even a veranda he could step out onto. The view was impressive, with palm trees and craggy rocks co-existing harmoniously, and the shimmering ocean behind. No view of the pool, he noticed, not quite sure how he felt about that. Sure, his room at home didn't directly overlook the pool, but he could at least see if he looked in the right direction.

He located a closet and placed his uniform inside, out of immediate sight of curious individuals. No doubt Other-Brains would want to examine it in detail at some point, and if Scott wanted the best chance of getting home, he would have to allow that, but that would be happening under his supervision. Just in case the remote controls were still active.

"Do you want the rest of the house tour now or later?" Other-Gordon asked him.

"Now works for me," he said, glancing at the watch on his wrist. It still showed the map, a flashing blue light signifying Other-Scott's room. How did he turn that off? It had served its purpose now, and Scott was used to maps being easily dismissed if they didn't automatically vanish.

"Third dial," Other-Gordon said, gesturing to the same knob on his own watch. "That's basically the 'stop' button." Scott glanced at him, wondering if he was really that easy to read, before pressing the end transmission button Other-Scott had shown him. Sure enough, the map vanished and the analogue clock face stared back at him instead. "Thunderbird Two won't be far short of the danger zone now, so Dad'll be busy in the lounge for a while yet."

That sounded like a perfect time to explore the rest of the house, and the hangars, too, if he could wrangle it. Thunderbird One had appeared to be reasonably close to his own; he was curious about the other Thunderbirds.

"So what else do you have here?" he asked, heading for the door, and Other-Gordon was quick to catch up.

"Well, you know the bedrooms and the lounge," he said. "If we keep going round there's another guest room next to yours." He nodded at another door, set further down the hallway. "And that is Brains' main lab opposite." That drew Scott's attention. Somewhere in there, the scientist was looking for a way to get him home. If Other-Gordon hadn't been with him, he wouldn't have been able to resist entering, Other-John's caution to not interrupt him discarded. As it was, he had company and Other-Gordon wasn't showing any inclination to enter it. Indeed, he was already carrying on down the hallway, past the other guest room. Scott jogged to keep up.

Another door marked the end of the hallway. Other-Gordon pushed it open.

"Rather a narrow hallway, this one, but it has a gorgeous view of the ocean," he said, stepping through and turning a corner to reveal a corridor – narrow, just as Other-Gordon had warned – and lined with windows. The view was indeed beautiful, but Scott's attention was caught by the runway protruding from the beach much further below them. He could just about see the end of what looked like a row of palm trees on either side.

Other-Gordon stepped closer to him, following his line of sight before making a noise of amusement.

"See something familiar?" he asked. Scott nodded.

"Seems like there's more similarities than differences between Thunderbirds One and Two so far," he commented. It was easy to visualise the trees bowing backwards as a green behemoth travelled between them.

At least, he was assuming Thunderbird Two was green in this universe. Thunderbird One's colourings had been identical, anyway.

"It's not just for Thunderbird Two," Other-Gordon told him. "The domestic jets use that one, too. It's where I launch Thunderbird Four if Virgil isn't giving us a lift, too."

"Thunderbird _Four_?" Scott asked. "You don't have an underwater tunnel for your island launch?"

Amber eyes flickered with interest.

"Underwater tunnel?" Other-Gordon returned. "You have an underwater tunnel? How do you get Four there from the Pod?"

Scott mentally translated pod to module. Different yet similar terminology was a nuisance, but it was a nuisance he was going to have to get used to if he wanted to get home. He refused to consider the idea that he'd be stuck here forever.

"Magnetic grabs and pulleys," he said. It was a rather over-simplification of the complex mechanism Brains had set up in order to get the submarine quickly and efficiently between Module Four and the nicknamed 'squid tank' she otherwise settled in by Thunderbird One, but with the difference in technology – and the fact that Scott didn't fully understand the nuances of that particular A to B journey anyway – he saw no point in explaining further. After a moment or two of silence, Other-Gordon clearly hoping for a little more detail, the ginger man sighed.

"Well, this is what I think you're really after," he said, turning away from the sea and heading further along the corridor. What he was really after? Scott followed, intrigued as Other-Gordon rotated a large vase ninety degrees only for a section of wall to slide back.

Okay, so yes, this was what Scott was really after. Thunderbird One's hangar looked different without the 'bird inside, a large square hole where she normally sat. Trailing off down beneath the walkway they were stood on – the same one as earlier, Scott could see the lamps in the wall further along – was a slope. Scott assumed that headed in the direction of the pool.

The fact that their Thunderbird One was literally stored _in the villa_ still felt odd to him, especially with no sign of any of her sisters nearby. Where was Thunderbird Three, towering above them? The landing pad for the space elevator, sharing One's gantry? Thunderbird Four's little tank, the little yellow sub bobbing happily beside her larger sisters?

It felt wrong, his Thunderbird stored all alone – even if she wasn't _his_ Thunderbird, strictly speaking. Other-Gordon fell back, letting him walk over to the lamps. The route was partially blocked by a large metal tube snaking down and away, and it took some manoeuvring to pass it. He couldn't see where it led, but he could probably make an educated guess.

"What about the others?" he asked, and Other-Gordon raised an eyebrow at him.

"You want to see the other hangars?" he asked, in a voice that told Scott that Other-Gordon had no intentions of being his guide there. In fact, with the ginger man between him and the door they'd come through, Scott realised he'd been cornered. Even though he was closer to the other exit, Other-Scott's own access point, that lead to the lounge and Not-Dad, and a situation he was not interested in facing just yet. He scowled.

"What do you want from me?"

"Answers," Other-Gordon said, at least having the grace not to deny the trap now that Scott was aware of it. He really needed to get his head in the game; he couldn't afford to be making slip-ups.

"Well I want those, too," he retorted, crossing his arms and fixing the shorter man with a hard look. "Particularly about how I'm getting home."

"John's given you all the answers we have on that front," Other-Gordon said calmly. Scott knew that, but it didn't do much for the frustration that he was _stuck_ away from his family, with no way of letting them know where he was – or even that he was still _alive_. "I want to know about _you_."

Scott's brain screeched to a halt. _Him_? He'd been expecting a grilling on his home, his family, his own International Rescue. Other-John had already done some probing, and Other-Brains would doubtless be after every scrap of information that could help him solve the puzzle, but information on _him_?

"Why?" he asked, back-footed, cornered, and hating every moment he wasn't in control.

"Because I want to know exactly who we've got living with us until we can get you home," Other-Gordon said bluntly. "You're like Scott, which was apparently enough to have you two trying to punch each other's lights out once already, but you're also _not_ like Scott."

"That's not what your John said." On the one hand, Scott was glad he wasn't the only one who thought there were _some_ differences – cowering from his father being the immediate one that sprang to mind, never mind fashion sense, although from Other-Gordon's attire, it might just be that fashion was different in general – but on the other, he wasn't sure he wanted to be micro-analysed by a too-sharp ginger.

"I'm not John," Other-Gordon pointed out. "I also don't have the luxury of hiding in space while a stranger with my brother's face appears and throws my family for a loop."

"Throws _your_ family-" Scott started, fully prepared to remind him that _his_ family would be out of their minds, but Other-Gordon talked over him as though he wasn't talking.

"You've already punched my brother, broken my Dad's nose, and then also got into a shouting match with my Dad," he reminded him. "I don't know what _your_ family's like, but here, Dad's word is law. No-one talks back to him like that. Not us, not Kyrano, not his friends. So where do _you_ get off disrespecting him in his own home?"

It wasn't rage Scott saw in amber eyes glaring up at him, not budging an inch despite the height difference putting him at a natural disadvantage. Not entirely. There was curiosity there, and a healthy dose of suspicion. Annoyance, and maybe even a hint of compassion, buried right at the back. Scott was reminded of his own outburst, sometime earlier, in that very same hangar, and knew he wasn't the only one thinking about it.

Other-Gordon didn't mention it, however, remaining stock still and pinning Scott with the intensity of his gaze. Behind him was the escape to the lounge, and the very man he was determined to avoid. Other-Gordon blocked the other way out, and Scott wasn't naïve enough to think he'd be able to get past him. Gordon could match him just fine – Other-Gordon looked to be older, a little wiser. Almost certainly stronger.

Besides, Scott was tired of running away. In order to get home, he knew he needed to co-operate, and while Not-Dad was high on his list of individuals to avoid as much as possible because Other-Gordon was _right_ , he would keep clashing with the man as long as he tried to act as Scott's superior, he wasn't a coward and had no intentions of starting to be one now.

"You heard what I said earlier," he started. " _My_ father's gone. You're not an idiot, work it out. What would you do if _yours_ vanished without a trace?" He didn't want to talk about it. He could barely talk about their Dad and the Zero-X with his own brothers, let alone strangers who knew nothing. It was easier to fall into the tried and true big brother mode of making them reach the answers by themselves, even if the man standing in front of him wasn't one of his brothers.

From the sharp look Other-Gordon sent him, he'd seen through the façade.

"Scott would take full command." It seemed like he'd be humoured anyway. "And he'd be terrible at it." Wait, what? Scott squinted, trying to work out who the insult was aimed at and why. "How long ago?"

_That_ was unexpected.

"Why?"

"Because I've seen Scott when he's been left entirely in charge," Other-Gordon said. "Dad tore into every decision he made when he got back. Didn't agree with any of it, even though Scott was trying to follow what he thought Dad would have done. _You_ aren't fumbling for approval, but I bet you were to start with."

_What would Dad do?_ It was an instinctive mantra at this point. Other-Gordon was wrong; he still wanted Dad's approval, he wanted to know he was doing things _right_. Should he have pulled Alan from school? Should he have let Alan join the team so young? Were the changes he'd made in the _eight damn years_ since the Zero-X the best things he could have done?

If Dad came back, would he be proud of him? Or would he be like Not-Dad, and tear into all his decisions?

It was that line of thought again, and he trampled it down firmly. He couldn't think like that. Not now, not _ever_. If he started to doubt, if he started second-guessing himself… No. He had to look forwards. Always look forwards, never back.

Other-Gordon was watching him like a hawk, and Scott wondered how much of what he'd been thinking had been visible on his face. The ginger didn't give him any clues, simply standing and waiting for him to talk.

"Too long," he admitted. "Eight years."

Other-Gordon's poker face broke for just a moment, shock flitting across his expression before he slammed the walls back up.

"Geez," he muttered under his breath, before he frowned. "Your International Rescue's been operating for eight years?"

"IR did their first rescue just over eight years ago," Scott confirmed. Six months Before, with Dad, Kyrano and Uncle Lee doing the heavy lifting while Scott and then John assisted around college. Five years out of operation, until they were all old enough – except Alan, who was too young but snuck in anyway. Three years since they'd taken up the reins again, with him at the helm.

Other-Gordon looked like he had several questions. Scott didn't want him asking any of them.

"What about here?" he asked, challenging Other-Gordon to try and turn it back into a one-sided interrogation.

"Three years," the man admitted, but the calculating look was still in his eyes and Scott wasn't sure he liked it. Something along those lines must have shown in his face, because all at once, tension leaked from the other man's shoulders. "You do realise we're on the same side, here?"

"You're the one that started interrogating me," Scott snapped back, and Other-Gordon raised his hands in mock-surrender, just like Other-John had done earlier.

"Were you going to tell me _anything_ if I didn't?" he asked, and Scott had to admit that no, he wouldn't. A thought struck him and he glared at the shorter man.

"You'd better not tell anyone." The only thing worse than telling them _himself_ would be having them gossiping about him behind his back, putting together bits and pieces with no guarantee of finding the right answers.

"Tell them what?" Other-Gordon challenged. "That the reason you're so snappy is because you've been single-handedly looking after your family for eight years and being separated from them has you on edge? Or that Dad's got you off-kilter because secretly you still want approval from yours but know you can't get it?"

For the second time that day, Scott's knuckles found the wall of the hangar, and protested loudly at the treatment. He'd realised Other-Gordon was getting _something_ more than he'd outright said, but hearing the thoughts he'd been determinedly burying even from himself thrown in his face by a stranger with his brother's eyes was more than he could take.

"Geez," Other-Gordon muttered, stepping closer and taking hold of his outstretched fist. "Are you always this self-destructive?" Scott tried to pull his hand back, but the other man's grip was strong. "You've gone and wrecked Tin-Tin's bandaging; she won't be happy about that." Scott scowled and tugged again; Other-Gordon let him pull free that time. "Scott." It was the first time the man had referred to him by name and he met his eyes. "We're going to help you. Remember, we're International Rescue, too."

Scott glanced sideways, at the empty hangar that usually housed Thunderbird One – not _his_ Thunderbird One, but Thunderbird One regardless. Earlier, he'd been too overwhelmed by everything to properly appreciate what that _meant_. Two conversations later, it was starting to sink in.

"I guess that's true," he admitted.

"You _guess_?" Other-Gordon demanded, but there was a grin on his face and a sparkle in his eyes that stole Scott's breath all over again. He'd known he was this universe's Gordon, but with the serious face and wrong colour hair, it hadn't really _hit_.

With his face lit up like that, he wondered how he could have ever looked at the unknown ginger man sitting between him and Other-Scott in the kitchen what felt like hours earlier and dismissed the niggling familiarity. This man, ginger hair and older age aside, was definitely _Gordon._

"You okay?" Other-Gordon asked, and Scott's shoulders slumped.

"I miss them," he admitted.

"Of course you do," Other-Gordon said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "If there's one thing I bet you and my Scott are definitely identical in, it's being a ridiculous smother hen." Despite everything, Scott had to grin ruefully at that. "Come on, let's get something done about that hand of yours before Tin-Tin spots it."

Other-Gordon turned and climbed around the large metal pipe without waiting to see if Scott was following. Scott watched him go, noticing that he was just as nimble as his Gordon, and frowned. Should he not be letting Gordon go out on missions after all? Or was Other-Gordon actually perfectly fit for duty, and Not-Dad was grounding him for no good reason?

"If you had the choice," he started, mouth running ahead of his brain, "would you go on more rescues?"

Other-Gordon stopped and turned to face him again, amber eyes searching.

"Why?" he asked. Scott met his gaze evenly and waited. Other-Gordon grumbled something under his breath about there being two of them now. "I'd go on all of them, if Dad let me." The bitterness that crept in told Scott everything he needed to know.

"No reason," he shrugged, casting one last look at the empty space where Thunderbird One lived before heading for the door himself. Other-Gordon made a noise of protest, a little brother's _my big brother is being annoying again_ noise that made something go tight in his chest, but he didn't let it show.

"Seriously?" Other-Gordon grumbled a little louder. "You don't think I believe that, do you?" Scott shrugged at him, and amber eyes narrowed. "Just because you look like my big brother doesn't mean you get to act like it!"

"I'm acting like me, not him," Scott informed him airily, falling into the familiarity of brotherly banter, even if this _wasn't_ his brother.

"Well just because I look like your brother doesn't mean you get to act like I am," Other-Gordon continued, not at all deterred. Just short of the door, Scott stopped suddenly.

"What?"

"You heard me," Other-Gordon insisted, although there was something ever so slightly different in his voice, a note of uncertainty as though he'd realised he'd said something wrong but wasn't sure what. "Just because I look like-"

"You don't," Scott cut him off, turning round to face him. Other-Gordon blinked, mouth half-open a little like a fish before he closed it again.

"I… don't?" he asked. "But… you and Scott are near enough identical, and you said Dad looked like-" He cut himself off before he could finish that sentence; Scott was grateful for it.

"You don't," he admitted. "I can _tell_ you're him, but you don't look like him." No, that was a lie. He had the same high cheekbones, the same angled jaw, the same _eyes_. It was just the hair and the fact that there was no question he was a man, not a teenager just crossing into adulthood, that made him look different.

If it was just Other-Gordon, he'd wonder if the man had dyed his hair – Other-Scott was also older than him, although he didn't want to ponder on what that meant for timeline continuity – but Other-John and Other-Virgil also had the wrong colour hair. Other-Brains, Other-Kyrano and Mrs Tracy also looked notably different, and Tin-Tin was not only visually different but had a different name as well.

"That's strange," Other-Gordon mused. "Is it just me?" Scott shook his head.

"More like it's only me and your Scott," he said. "And your father. Everyone else is different."

"So if someone other than Scott had come in, you might not have attacked them?" Other-Gordon asked, almost dryly. Scott shrugged.

"Who knows," he replied, although privately he doubted it. It didn't matter what the other party looked like if his brothers were at stake. Other-Gordon sent him a small grin, before brushing past him and opening the door.

"Still, you'll have to tell the others that," he said, strolling back along the narrow corridor. Scott followed, ignoring the pain shooting through his knuckles. "I know the fellas are keeping an eye out for anyone else that looks like us while they're off base just in case, but if they don't know what they're looking for they might miss something."

He was right, and Scott nodded. He hadn't realised they were all looking, not just Thunderbird Five, but it made sense and there was a rush of gratitude at their efforts.

"Talk to Virg once he's back," Other-Gordon continued. "That'll be the easiest way to make sure we get it right." They skirted the lounge door with Not-Dad's voice emitting from it, interspersed with Other-Scott's tinny speaker-voice reports and traipsed down the stairs again – a route that was rapidly becoming familiar as they once again headed for the infirmary. "But come on, what does your Gordon look like? He's gotta be handsome, right?" There was that grin – that _Gordon_ grin – again, and Scott rolled his eyes.

"I'm the wrong person to ask about that," he scoffed, watching Other-Gordon pull a disgruntled face, and managing a small grin of his own. "His hair's blond, and…" he trailed off, not sure how to put it into words. As far as basic descriptions went, there _wasn't_ any other big differences, just lots of small things Scott couldn't even put his finger on exactly.

"And..?" Other-Gordon prompted, although he was tugging at his bangs – falling in front of his forehead, rather than swept back like his Gordon's – and trying to look at them, no doubt trying to figure out how he'd look blond. Scott shrugged helplessly.

"I'm a pilot, not a novelist," he pointed out. "It's not the big things, it's the little ones." He frowned. "How old are you?"

"How old are _you_?" Other-Gordon shot back, releasing his hair in favour of pushing the infirmary door open and pointing towards a chair. "I'd say you're younger than Scott, except he's not going grey yet." Scott scowled and resisted the urge to touch his temples, where he knew the accused hairs were most prominent.

"I asked first," he pointed out, and Other-Gordon rolled his eyes.

"Twenty-three, now sit down or I'll get Tin-Tin to redress your hand." Tin-Tin had seemed like a sweet enough young woman, but if she was being used as a threat – and Scott knew a threat from a sibling when he heard it – then she was no doubt more Kayo-like than first impressions betrayed. Scott sat. "Why?"

"That would probably explain the rest," Scott muttered, trying to work out what his Gordon would look like in four years' time. The same age as Virgil, which meant Other-Scott, and probably Other-John as well were older than him. He consoled himself with the fact that with Not-Dad around, they were probably under less stress, hence the lack of greys. "Gordon – my Gordon – is nineteen."

"So I look different because I'm older?" Other-Gordon surmised, unwrapping the old bandages and pouring something that stung like disinfectant on his swollen and once again bleeding knuckles. "You didn't answer my question."

"I'm twenty-seven," Scott admitted, and Other-Gordon blinked.

"Not twenty-six?"

"Why would I be twenty-six?" Scott asked, taken aback. Other-Gordon frowned and opened a fresh roll of bandages, carefully but efficiently rewrapping his hand.

"Well if your Gordon is four years younger than me, you should be four years younger than Scott, right? Scott's thirty." It was Scott's turn to frown. Clearly there were more differences than just technology, and his gut coiled unpleasantly, not sure it liked the implications. "What are your other brothers' ages?"

"What are yours'?" he retorted, and Other-Gordon raised an eyebrow at him as he tied off the bandage.

"I asked first." Typical younger brother, turning his earlier words against him.

"John's twenty-five, Virgil's twenty-three and Alan's fifteen," he said. "Yours?"

"Your Alan's-"

" _Yours?"_ he repeated firmly, cutting off any comments about his youngest brother and International Rescue. He _knew_ fifteen was too young; he didn't need to hear that from an alternate universe's version of one of his own brothers. Other-Gordon gave him a look that said the topic was not dropped, but answered anyway.

"John's twenty-eight, Virg's twenty-six and Alan's twenty. Seems like the difference is me and Alan," he observed. Scott didn't miss the intent in his voice when he said the youngest's name, but ignored it.

"Seems like it," he agreed instead, checking over the bandaging despite knowing it was professionally done. Other-Gordon was sharp, too sharp, and once again their conversation was veering into territory Scott would rather it _didn't_. "That seems like something Brains should know about," he said, and once again ignored the look the younger man sent him. Other-Gordon knew exactly what he was doing, and Scott got the uncomfortable feeling he was once again being _humoured_.

His dislike of being humoured didn't outweigh his determination not to talk about things like Alan's young age or Dad's crash, though, so he suffered through it with a glare.

"We'll tell Brains when he comes looking for more information," Other-Gordon said out loud. "Surely your Brains hates being interrupted mid-flow, too?" He did, but that had never stopped Scott from doing it when it was an emergency, and anything relating to getting him _home_ qualified in his books.

A hand landed on his shoulder, Other-Gordon leaning down slightly to meet his eyes firmly.

"I know you want to get home, but don't take it out on Brains," he said, his grip tight. "Brains will find you once he's finished processing the data he got from your arrival." Scott scowled, glancing away, and the other man sighed. "I can stop asking questions if that helps."

That _would_ help. He met Other-Gordon's eyes again and relaxed at the sincerity he saw in them, nodding. Other-Gordon scrutinised him, although what he was looking for, Scott didn't know, before letting go and taking a step back.

"Normally I sit in on the mission," he informed him. "We can go to the lounge if you want, or there's the games room if billiards or chess is more your speed right now." The offer to continue evading Not-Dad was clear.

"And if I want to be alone?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

" _If_ you want to be alone, I've shown you your room," Other-Gordon began. "But I don't think you do." Didn't he? Scott wanted time to let it all sink in, mull over all the information Other-John and Other-Gordon had bombarded him with and figure out what it all meant for him and his chances of getting home.

He caught sight of his useless communicator, still on his wrist, and remembered curling up against a boulder, begging and screaming for it to connect with another universe. Maybe Other-Gordon was right; if he was alone again he'd go back to focusing on what had happened. _Dwelling_ , his brothers called it immediately before they did something outrageous to get him to stop staring into nothing, brain stuck in a loop of past events.

Looking back, letting himself _think_ about what had happened always threatened to drive him crazy. It had been that way since the Zero-X, and held true even now. _Especially_ now, when events defied all probabilities. He sighed.

"It's been a while since I last played chess," he said by way of an answer, and Other-Gordon cracked a grin. Chess would keep his mind focused, especially if Other-Gordon was half as good as Gordon or John; if he was, Scott was in for an inevitable thrashing.

Other-Gordon at least had the grace not to say 'I told you so', simply straightening up and offering him a hand, which he accepted, pulling himself to his feet.

"The games room's this way," he gestured, leading the way out of the infirmary and then further along the hallway, to a brightly lit room dominated by a billiards table. Various chairs and small tables dotted one side of the room – spectators for the game, or perfectly positioned for a quiet game of chess in the corner, as Other-Gordon withdrew a chess set and placed it on the table.

"White or black?" he offered as Scott stared at it. A proper, wooden chessboard with real, hand-carved pieces. He picked up a white knight and stroked its mane, feeling the indents of the carved hair with the pad of his finger.

"White," he replied after a moment. Other-Gordon watched him closely, but as promised didn't ask. Scott shrugged, folding himself into the comfortable chair and placing the piece back where it belonged. "It's been a long time since I last used a wooden set," he volunteered. "Gordon's the only one that owns one and no-one's allowed to use it until they beat him."

"You haven't?" Other-Gordon asked – despite his promise otherwise, but Scott knew he had opened himself up for that one. Talking about something as mundane as chess didn't hurt as much as their previous conversation had.

"Not since he got that board," he admitted. "John and-" he caught himself, not wanting to mention EOS and open _that_ can of worms for debate. "John's the only one that has; they play whenever he's down from Five." Other-Gordon's eyes flickered in interest, catching the slip, but to his credit he didn't ask.

"White goes first," he reminded him needlessly, and Scott picked up the knight again, leaping it over the row of pawns. Other-Gordon hummed in interest before nudging a pawn forward. Scott recalled that particular opening as Gordon's favourite to use, a win in five moves unless their opponent knew the counter. It might have been a while since he'd last had the time to play – and the inclination to probably lose to Gordon – but Scott still remembered the counter, moving his knight into position.

Other-Gordon laughed, seeing his experiment foiled, and switched tactics. Scott got the feeling he'd just passed some sort of test.

The game went much as he suspected it would – while he wasn't _bad_ at chess, he was out of practice and Other-Gordon was very, very good. He held out for a while, half an hour maybe, but eventually the inevitable conclusion of his King toppling occurred and he bit back a laugh, laying down the piece with good grace.

"You're not too terrible," Other-Gordon commented, collecting up the mass of white captured pieces and handing them over. "Some practice and you might even be a challenge." He winked, and Scott groaned good-naturedly, trying hard not to think about _why_ he didn't get much practice before that ruined his mood. "Again?" What were his other options? Billiards, or sitting in on a mission with Not-Dad. It wasn't exactly a difficult decision.

In answer, Scott pulled his King upright and set up his forces again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you predicted this was coming... although I hardly tried to hide it. This is the longest chapter so far because once you get the fish going, he never shuts up. Most of you know I adore Scott; some of you probably know my favourite brother relationship is Scott&Gordon. If you didn't, this fic is probably going to make that very obvious. I have plans for these two...
> 
> Also, trying to sort out TAG's timeline is a headache and I ended up fudging a lot of it. Please just roll with it because I spent far too long agonising over this before giving up and throwing this out into the void. It's fiction. It doesn't have to make sense.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a lot in this chapter - more compare and contrast, yay! - but the bit I want to mention specifically is one of the major society differences between TOS and TAG, which stems entirely from the 50 years between writing - sexism. I’ve noticed that a lot of TOS-based fics tend to shift away from or gloss over that, because that’s just how it was in the 60s when TOS was written and there’s no need to honour it (past the Alan/Tin-Tin spats) in modern fanfic.
> 
> Normally, I’d agree, but as already mentioned, I’m playing compare and contrast, and quite frankly the sexism was too tempting to pass up. Now, that does not mean we’ll have City of Fire-esque “crazy woman driver” in the fic because that was writer-sexism, not in-universe, and I’m not about that. Perceptions of women as delicate flowers who are supposed to be seen and not heard by the male [TOS] cast, though? We are definitely playing with that, so consider this a warning. I could go into an entire essay on this, but you’re not here for that, you’re here to see it all through TAG!Scott’s eyes, so let’s let him tell the tale, shall we?

Scott was on the slippery slope towards a fourth loss – with no wins – when the house trembled slightly. The unmistakable roar of a jet engine in close proximity told him what the cause of it was, and he didn't need Other-Gordon to tell him it was Thunderbird One. She might not be _his_ Thunderbird One, and her engine might make a different noise, no doubt due to different technology, but Scott had always had an ear for plane engines. Having already heard it once, the cry of this universe's Thunderbird One was instantly recognisable.

"Do you want to finish up first or call it here?" Other-Gordon asked, either correctly assuming that Scott had every intention of seeing his counterpart now he was back, or simply wanting to attend the debrief himself.

"How long do post-flight checks take here?" he replied, eyeing the board with a brain only half concentrating on the game now and trying to work out if he could do anything other than be defeated before Other-Scott finished said checks and emerged from the hangar.

"Scott'll be out in five minutes, assuming nothing went wrong on the mission," Other-Gordon told him, glancing down at his watch. "They weren't gone long, so it probably all went smoothly."

"Well I'm not going to get this turned around in five minutes," he sighed, gesturing at the board, "so we might as well call it." Other-Gordon laughed.

"You're right about that," he agreed. "You're only two moves away from defeat anyway." Scott could see that, and knocked his King over to save himself the bother. Other-Gordon laughed again, and swept the pieces up, packing them away before standing. "Let's see what my brothers had to deal with this time," he commented, with barely a hint of bitterness to betray the fact he'd have liked to be on it rather than stuck at home waiting. Scott pulled himself up out of the comfortable chair he'd got used to sitting in for the past couple of hours.

"Lead the way."

They got as far as the door before Other-Gordon stopped, looking up at him with a serious expression he hadn't seen on his face since before they started playing chess.

"Before we do," he started; Scott instinctively straightened at the tone. "Knowing you – well, Scott, and assuming it's something else you two share – you're no doubt going to be analysing and second-guessing everything the fellas did out on the rescue. Do me a favour and keep it to yourself."

Scott blinked. "What?"

Other-Gordon didn't budge, arms crossed. "Your universe and ours have different technology; we've all realised that. It's likely that means you'd make different calls to us, based on what you'd have at your disposal if you were with your own International Rescue. John and Brains, hell maybe Scott and Virgil, too, will be curious at the differences, but save it until you're _asked_. The debrief isn't a place for hypotheticals based on other-universe technology and I doubt you'd appreciate it if roles were reversed and it was our Scott butting in on _your_ debriefs."

Scott sighed. "You have a point," he admitted. Keeping his mouth shut when he had an opinion was not something he was particularly well-practiced in, but Other-Gordon was right. He'd be fuming if someone who knew nothing about International Rescue's capabilities interrupted his own debriefs. The idea that he _didn't_ know International Rescue's capabilities rankled, but he remembered Other-John's rundown of the situation earlier and how many terms had been unfamiliar to him. Hell, they even had different names for something as fundamental as Thunderbird Two's modules. He sighed again, running a hand down his face, to a raised eyebrow from Other-Gordon.

"Everything alright?" the other man asked, and he shrugged.

"You do realise I'm not used to _not_ being in charge?" he asked rhetorically, prompting a laugh from the ginger.

"I had noticed," he commented dryly. "Dad's still going to have a fit if you walk in looking like that, and Scott's going to want to know what you think you're doing with his shirt."

"I'm wearing it," Scott shrugged.

"Badly," Other-Gordon retorted, turning away and opening the door, leading the way back towards the lounge – and Not-Dad. Scott tried not to think about the fact he'd soon be in the older man's presence again.

"It's more comfortable this way," he bit back instead, determined to get the last word.

"It looks sloppy." Other-Gordon clearly didn't feel like letting him have it.

"Maybe I don't like looking like a pampered son of a billionaire." Two could play at that game.

"That's what you are, so own it."

"Actually, _I'm_ the billionaire," Scott pointed out, the one result of Dad's crash he'd finally found himself comfortable with, if only through necessity and the fact that it was how International Rescue could still operate. "I can look how I want."

Other-Gordon froze for a fraction of a second before continuing the walk through the villa, a barely-there stumble that told Scott he hadn't realised that aspect.

"Touché," he conceded after a moment. "But I don't think that'll wash with either of them." Scott shrugged.

"I stopped caring what other people thought a long time ago," he pointed out. It was only half a lie – he cared about the opinions of his brothers and closest friends. He _didn't_ care about the rest of the world's opinions.

Or another universe's.

Other-Gordon chuckled again, jogging up the stairs with Scott hot on his heels before heading for the lounge. Scott paused as they crossed the threshold, seeing Tin-Tin already there, but he refused to baulk. Not-Dad was sat behind the desk, looking every inch the man in charge, and he dragged his feet into the room, finding a seat on the edge of the depressed circle and sprawling out on it as though he was at home.

As it happened, his entrance was timed perfectly. Just as Not-Dad caught sight of him, face drawing into a look of disapproval and mouth opening to dish it out in what would no doubt be a tongue lashing, the section of wall housing the two lamps swung around, revealing Other-Scott.

"I'm back, Dad," he greeted, a split second before he, too, caught sight of Scott and his new attire. "Hey, what are you wearing?"

"Unless you're in the habit of keeping anyone else's clothes in your closet, your clothes," Scott shrugged, eyeing what the other man was wearing. Blue rollneck, checkered blue cardigan and dark brown slacks.

Fashion was _definitely_ different in this universe.

"You look disgraceful," Not-Dad cut in, but he didn't look over at him. Their voices were different, so as long as he didn't look at him, the scolding didn't hurt so much. "Do up that shirt properly." Scott ignored him, and Other-Gordon's sing-song _I told you so_.

Other-Scott was less ignorable, striding up to him and yanking sharply on the sleeve cuffs to unroll them.

"Don't wreck my clothes," he complained. "You'll stretch the sleeves doing that." Scott rolled his eyes and tugged his arms back. "Dad, someone needs to get him some new clothes; he can't keep wearing mine."

"Or the same underpants because he refuses to wear yours," Other-Gordon cut in.

"Gordon, Tin-Tin's present!" Not-Dad snapped, although the young woman was tittering quietly and didn't seem at all mortified. "We'll deal with the clothing situation once debrief is over. In the meantime, wear my son's clothes properly, young man."

Scott tugged at the sleeves, smoothing them out again at Other-Scott's request but not doing up any buttons.

"Are you always this insolent?" Not-Dad demanded when he realised Scott wasn't obeying him. "What does it take to get some respect in my own house?"

Hiding his reluctance, Scott turned his head to meet his eyes. Not-Dad's eyes were still a hard steely grey; both Other-John and Other-Gordon had mentioned that the two of them clashing was inevitable, and Scott could tell that they were right. He _should_ defer to the other man – it was his home, and he was the one in charge of the people that could get _him_ home – but even considering doing so made his heart rebel violently.

He hadn't protected his family and his father's legacy for the past eight years by backing down, and he wasn't about to start now.

"I respect people who _earn_ it," he said pointedly. "You don't get a free pass just because you're rich and powerful; I've rescued too many rich and powerful people from their own stupidity for that." Francois Lemaire came to mind. The reasoning behind birthday parties in the Mariana Trench and flying into a comet's coma still boggled him.

Not-Dad looked taken aback, as though the idea of _earning_ respect was foreign to him. Or maybe it was the fact that he admittedly looked just like the man's eldest son, so maybe hearing that from him was a shock to the system.

"What about International Rescue?" the man asked, and Scott shrugged.

"What about it?"

"Does _that_ not get your respect?"

"I can respect what an organisation _does_ without respecting the man behind it," he pointed out, coolly. "The fact that you're International Rescue tells me that you'll do everything you can to get me home, and I respect _that_."

"So you don't respect us," Not-Dad said flatly, a hint of anger in his tone, and Scott shrugged.

"I don't _know_ you," he reminded the room at large. "You're an alternate universe version of my family, and I'm still working out what that _means_. I trust you to help me, but respect? I don't know you well enough for that."

"He's got a point, Dad," Other-Scott said, perching on the arm of the neighbouring chair. The support was unexpected, but welcome. "Just because he looks like me doesn't mean he is _me_."

"You're pretty similar," Other-Gordon piped up, and Scott rolled his eyes.

"That's not what you said earlier," he reminded him. Other-Gordon simply shrugged.

"I'm working with more information now."

"What information?" Not-Dad demanded, and Scott sent the ginger a glare, realising too late that the younger man had never agreed not to share their conversation in the hangar. Other-Gordon was too sharp for his liking. Was his Gordon going to end up that difficult to wrangle in four years, or was it just because despite appearances he _wasn't_ Other-Gordon's brother?

"I spent the last three hours playing chess against him," Other-Gordon informed the room. To his surprise, Other-Scott laughed.

"You couldn't beat him either? Gordon's a demon when it comes to chess."

"I can't say I expected to win," Scott admitted. "That's a fact in both universes." Other-Gordon preened, and Not-Dad sat back in his desk chair, clearly deciding to let them talk without his intervention.

That act felt a little bit more like _Dad_ , and Scott looked away, the never-healed hole in his heart throbbing painfully. Other-Gordon sent him a sharp look, but said nothing. Other-Scott watched the silent exchange with confusion; Scott didn't plan on enlightening him, even if he was probably drawing his own conclusions.

Scott looked around as Other-Gordon carried the conversation, talking a mile a minute about chess with – or rather, _at_ – his eldest brother, who slumped off of the arm of the chair he was perching on to sit in it properly. Scott could relate to the post-mission exhaustion, and felt a stab of jealousy that as soon as debrief was over, Other-Scott didn't have to worry about it anymore. Not-Dad would take it all from there.

No wonder he wasn't going grey yet.

The photos on the wall had changed. Gone were the five relaxing young men, lounging around in their civvies. Instead, there were photos of the same five young men all wearing IR blue and coloured sashes, posed just like their own portraits at home. He couldn't believe they still wore those damn hats, then again, that was something he'd scrapped after Dad's crash. Not-Dad clearly liked the things enough to still keep them, although he wondered if they really wore them all the time.

Their baldrics, although they looked more like sashes than baldrics, matched the colours Other-Scott had rattled off earlier – lilac for Other-John, yellow for Other-Virgil, orange for Other-Gordon and white for Other-Alan. Other-Scott himself had blue, and Scott wondered how much of a say they'd had in their colours. At home, they matched their Thunderbirds, but Thunderbird One here was still the same colour scheme.

"Operation Cover-Up was in effect last time you were in here," Other-Gordon commented. "If you're wondering why the pictures are different." He turned back to look at him and discovered the room was staring at him. Of course they were.

"Operation Cover-Up?" he asked, frowning. "What's that?"

Other-Scott narrowed his eyes, but it was Not-Dad that replied, frowning back at him in return.

"Surely you have one of your own?" he inquired. "The identity of International Rescue must be kept secret, after all."

Scott had almost forgotten about that; the first one of Dad's rules to fly out of the window, not that he'd been able to do anything about it.

"I wish," he muttered. While having their identities was useful at times, being dogged and recognised at a glance whenever they were out in public – and unable to let visitors onto the island without extensive background checks because otherwise they'd go snooping – was beyond tiring. Even their location wasn't as hidden as he'd like, especially not now the GDF knew it – Colonel Casey promised it was a high level clearance secret, but that didn't change the fact there were people in the GDF that _knew_.

"Are you saying it's not a secret in your universe?" Not-Dad demanded, and Scott shrugged.

"The world's not stupid." He slumped back in his chair, hyper aware that everyone in the room was watching him with varying levels of interest and disbelief. "Billionaire ex-Astronaut Jeff Tracy goes missing the exact same time the Commander of IR does. Two and two makes four. Not even John and Lady P could cover _that_ up." Especially not with the Hood leaking the information left, right and centre before going underground, as though killing his Dad wasn't _enough_ damage. "Best we've got is that _most_ of the world don't know where we live."

"How are you still operating?" Other-Scott asked, beating his father to it by barely a second, judging by Not-Dad's opened mouth. "Aren't people trying to steal the technology?"

Scott groaned. "All the damn time. Island's on permanent lockdown – no-one's allowed on or off without our security's approval. The GDF-" Other-John hadn't known what that was "-the world military suffers us because we're better at saving people than them and they know it. Our godmother being a Colonel helps a _lot_." He ran a hand over his face again, feeling drained just thinking about the mess he had to deal with daily to keep IR running.

How would they manage without him? Would the GDF force them to shut down, or would John or Virgil step up? How far did Colonel Casey's reach _go_ ; could she still keep them out of trouble with the GDF?

"Scott?" It was Other-Gordon that spoke, but when he pulled his hand away from his face it was Not-Dad he looked at.

"It's possible to operate when the world knows who you are, but it's a damn headache."

"Language!" the man barked. "There are women present." Scott rolled his eyes, under no illusions that Tin-Tin and Mrs Tracy hadn't heard worse.

"Gee, so _that's_ why you're going grey," Other-Gordon chipped in, and Scott glowered at him half-heartedly. "And here I was thinking I was going to need to see if Scott was hiding some dye somewhere."

" _Gordon_ ," Other-Scott growled. The ginger put his hands up.

"Just saying; it seemed suspicious that he's going grey and you're not."

"Why would I be going grey already?" Other-Scott demanded. "I'm thirty."

"And he's twenty-seven, so that argument doesn't hold any water, old chap," Other-Gordon retorted.

"Wait, what?" All eyes fell on Scott again, and he sent another withering glance Other-Gordon's way. The ginger wasn't saying anything he'd explicitly wanted _not_ said, but he was definitely skirting around dangerously close to the edge. "It's not twenty-sixty-five where you're from?" Other-Scott continued, and Scott froze.

"Twenty- _what_?" he asked. That… didn't make sense. That didn't make sense at _all_. He'd be thirty-two in 2065, not thirty. Then again, the age gaps between Virgil, Gordon and Alan were also different between the two universes, so maybe he shouldn't be surprised.

"I take it that's a no?" Other-Scott replied, and he shrugged.

"Twenty-sixty."

"That's weird."

"Tell me about it," Scott groaned. "I need to tell your Brains this stuff but apparently I'm not allowed to disturb him."

"What 'stuff'?" Tin-Tin asked, inserting herself in the conversation. "Have you worked anything out?"

"Scott and I were playing spot the difference earlier," Other-Gordon chipped in. "Seems there's a few more differences than we thought."

"Like different dates of birth," Other-Scott noted. "I was twenty-five in twenty-sixty, not twenty-seven. Is your birthday April fourth?"

Scott nodded, relieved that at least _one_ thing was the same.

"Different age gaps, too," Other-Gordon pointed out.

"Your brothers are closer in age?" Not-Dad asked. "It can't be the opposite, or you'd be too young to operate." Scott winced; the topic was getting too close to areas he didn't want it, and unlike Other-Gordon, Not-Dad and probably Other-Scott wouldn't let the matter of Alan's age drop. "They're not?" Not-Dad sounded startled, and he realised the wince had given him away. "But-"

He stood up suddenly.

"Let me know when you're debriefing," he said, and walked out. Dammit all; he'd said he wouldn't run away, and he knew he couldn't keep Alan's age from Not-Dad and Other-Scott forever, but he wasn't ready to see the disapproval on Not-Dad's face. Not when it was so like Dad's.

"Scott!" It was a woman's voice – Tin-Tin's, to be precise, and he reluctantly turned to see the younger woman following him hurriedly. With the topic of ages on his mind, he realised she was probably a similar age to Kayo, not older like the Tracy family seemed to be. Something else that made no sense.

"What is it?" he asked her as she came to a stop in front of her. No-one else emerged from the lounge; whether they were talking about him, or had decided to entrust him to Tin-Tin, he didn't know.

"I want to hear about these differences," she said firmly. "Brains is busy with the data he already has, but I'm not." She put a hand on his arm and directed him towards the stairs.

"What do you mean?" he asked, following her with the reminder that she was this universe's Kayo stuck in his mind. Just because she didn't _look_ as dangerous, didn't mean she wasn't.

"You recognised my father's name, but not mine," she observed. "Let's start at the beginning; good day, it's very nice to meet you. My name is Tin-Tin Kyrano and my primary role on the island is as Brains' assistant."

That was different, but the words 'Brains' assistant' stuck out like a lifeline. He smiled at her and stuck out his hand. "Good day, and it's very nice to meet you. The name's Scott Tracy and in my universe I'm the commander of International Rescue." She looked at his hand for a moment before grasping it. Her grip was light but firm and he knew his initial impressions had been correct – she was not a woman to be crossed.

If she could help get him home, he had no intentions of crossing her.

"Well, now that we're introduced," she smiled, guiding him back towards the infirmary but stopping in front of a different door, pushing it open to reveal a homely sitting area, "perhaps we should talk about those differences Brains needs to know about. Come in; we still have fifteen minutes before Thunderbird Two gets back, and the boys won't be ready for debrief for another fifteen after that."

It was only after he entered that he saw the king-sized bed, surrounded with drapes, in an alcove of the room and realised it must be her bedroom.

"Take a seat," she invited, gesturing to a plush loveseat. "Would you like something to drink?"

"If you have coffee that would be amazing," he admitted, and she laughed.

"I think the American men on this island would all stop functioning if we didn't have coffee," she smiled, heading for a coffee press in the corner of the room. Scott wondered why that was there when the kitchen was just down the hall. "How do you take it?"

"However I can get it," Scott admitted. "But ideally a splash of milk and a sugar."

"Just like our Scott," she commented. "How you men live off so much caffeine, I will never understand. Your blood must be more coffee than blood at this rate."

Scott smiled dryly. "Something like that."

"I must confess I'm curious – what am I like in your universe?" she asked as she set the water to boil. "You don't look at me like you do the boys."

"Kayo – Tanusha, but we call her Kayo after she put me down in a sparring session – is… _different_ to you," Scott admitted. "She's a tomboy, our head of security after Kyrano… left. Grew up with us as a sister, jumps into a fight first chance she gets. I have to hold her back more than all of my brothers combined."

Kayo would be going ballistic that he vanished right under her nose, even though _she_ hadn't been on the island at the time. He hoped she wouldn't follow in Kyrano's footsteps and vanish after 'failing' him. His brothers still needed her, whatever else happened.

Tin-Tin made a noise of surprise. "I assumed she must have been different, but that is _very_ different," she observed. The kettle whistled, steam pouring out of it, and she decanted the contents into the coffee press. "She gets into _fights_? Whatever do people think of that?"

"Kayo doesn't care," Scott shrugged. "She usually wins them, anyway."

"That's not particularly ladylike," Tin-Tin observed, although she didn't sound particularly scandalised about it. "Is that common in your universe? You mentioned your godmother's a Colonel in the military..?"

Scott thought to how Not-Dad had been so strict on language in front of her, and frowned.

"Are women generally treated like they're made of glass here, or is that just _him_?" he asked. "Grandma, Kayo and Lady P would have all had something to say if someone specifically cleaned up their language in front of them because they're female."

"As a general rule they think we're delicate flowers, yes," Tin-Tin confirmed, carrying a tray with two cups on it over to the table. One was clearly his coffee, while the other looked like another herbal tea. "Your attitude is quite refreshing, although when Mr Tracy isn't around the boys lose the gentlemanly airs a little."

"When you live with a sister who can kick your ass seven ways to Sunday and a Grandma with a sharp tongue you learn women aren't made of glass pretty damn quick," Scott shrugged.

"I suppose you would," she agreed, pulling out a notebook and pencil. "That seems like quite the incentive, but while you're here, at least _try_ to pretend you think we're made of glass." She winked. "It somewhat ruins the deception if a man sees through it."

That was a very Lady Penelope response, and Scott made a mental note of that.

"I'll see what I can do," he agreed, before looking pointedly at the notebook. "You had questions?"

"Those differences Gordon alluded to," she confirmed. "I'll write them down and give them to Brains to look at once he's finished with the information he currently has." Scott nodded his head and began to talk about the differences he and Other-Gordon had realised earlier.

The different age gaps – Tin-Tin let out a small gasp when she found out Alan was only fifteen, but didn't comment, much to his relief – and the different years of birth had already been somewhat covered in the lounge, but he also mentioned the differences in appearance, describing them as best he could and failing utterly at anything past "John's hair is ginger, Virgil's is black, Gordon's is blond, and they're all kinda younger-looking". His observation of different fashions, their earlier discussion on perception of women, and even an attempt into the technological differences also made their way into Tin-Tin's rapidly filling notebook. At some point they heard the sound of a rumbling engine, deeper than Thunderbird One's, and he recognised it as this universe's Thunderbird Two. Tin-Tin barely reacted, only mentioning off-handedly that they had about fifteen minutes left before continuing their conversation.

She steered clear of asking any questions about what had happened to his Dad, which he appreciated. That wound had been rubbed raw more than enough for one day, what with his initial outburst, Other-John's quiet probing and Other-Gordon's outright interrogation. She did, however, manage to steer the conversation towards his grandmother, and almost fell out of her chair when she discovered Sally Tracy couldn't cook.

"However do you boys keep yourselves fed?" she demanded. "If it's not Mrs Tracy, my father, or Kayo?"

Scott shrugged. "Take-out or snatching time to cook between missions," he admitted. "One good thing about the world knowing we're IR is that if I use Thunderbird One, take-out's still hot by the time I get it back." She laughed at that for a moment before turning serious again.

"But you boys _must_ have a balanced diet," she worried. "There's no way you can keep up with the physical demands of International Rescue without one."

"We manage," he assured her. "When John's home we lock him in the kitchen; he's by far the best cook out of the five of us." That elicited another laugh, although she looked halfway cross with herself for it. "We can all cook at least enough to survive." She didn't look entirely convinced, but with an entire universe between them, there wasn't much she could do about it and the topic reluctantly got dropped.

"This is a lot of differences," she said instead, looking down at her pages and pages of small, scrawling handwriting. Scott could barely read it, but it had also been a long time since he'd had to read anything handwritten that wasn't his own writing – and even that was unusual. Why handwrite when you had computers to do that for you? "Most of them are small enough to work around while you're here, but the differing years suggest your universe is five years younger than ours, and I'm not sure if there's any significance about the different years of birth. That's something Brains or John might understand better."

He nodded his understanding, his chest feeling lighter now he felt like they were getting somewhere. Baby steps to be sure, and Other-John's gentle reminder that it could take years still rang in his ears, but progress was progress.

"Now, it's about time for the debrief to start," she said, checking her own watch. Scott did the same, but the analogue dial taunted him, reminding him that he needed to learn to read it sooner rather than later – although that meant finding someone to teach him. "Alan and Virgil should be all cleaned up by now."

Scott drained the remains of his coffee and stood up, empty cup in hand.

"Oh, leave the cup on the table," Tin-Tin told him. "I'll clean it up later."

"If you're sure," he said dubiously – Grandma would have his hide for leaving dirty crockery anywhere that wasn't the kitchen, and even then it was expected to be cleaned immediately. Rescues were the only permissible excuse to do otherwise.

"Perfectly," she assured him, hand once again on his arm. "Come on, let's go hear about what the boys did today." With one last glance at the cup, and noticing that Tin-Tin had picked up her notebook, he let the young woman nudge him out of the room and headed for the stairs up to the lounge again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit more spot the difference, but also some things that aren’t so different after all! Interestingly, there is some tech that’s stayed the same between TOS and TAG, as Scott is about to discover (unfortunately for Scott, that doesn’t make him any happier).

"Tin-Tin!" Other-Alan was just emerging from what Scott vaguely recalled was his bedroom when they reached the landing, wearing an unbuttoned striped yellow shirt over a white rollneck. "Oh, it's you." Scott found himself on the receiving end of a glower from bright blue eyes, an expression his own Alan would never throw his way. He met it passively, not rising to the bait. "What are you doing with Tin-Tin?"

"Oh, we were just having a chat, Alan," she assured him before Scott could answer. "Just some research for Brains."

"Anything useful?" Other-Virgil emerged from further down the corridor, wearing some brown and yellow shirt and waistcoat combination and effectively shutting up Other-Alan before he could come up with another complaint. Did Other-Alan do anything _except_ complain?

"I'm sure it will be," she said. "But we should go and see your father; it's time for the debrief and it wouldn't do to keep him waiting."

"You're right, Tin-Tin," Other-Virgil agreed. "We can talk about this later." He walked through the doorway and Scott followed, to a scandalised noise from Other-Alan.

"You don't mean _he's_ involved in the debrief?" the young man demanded. "What's he got to do with any of this?"

"Alan!" Tin-Tin chided. Scott chose to ignore him. Other-Alan had made his opinions clear and he wasn't particularly interested in putting in the effort to change his mind. He'd do it of his own accord or not at all. Other-Scott and Other-Gordon were where he'd left them, and he reclaimed his earlier chair, leaning back and ignoring the way Not-Dad zeroed in on his still-undone top buttons with a disapproving frown. In the corner, Other-John's picture had been replaced with a video screen showing the man in real-time, judging by the way he was moving around.

Compared to his John's hologram always materialising in the room, as though he was physically there, a simple screen on the wall made him seem excluded and more or less forgotten. That didn't sit well with Scott, who thanks to EOS' appearance was well aware how lonely it was to be stuck up on Thunderbird Five without any other company, even for someone as allergic to socialising as John. No-one had made any mention of an EOS or equivalent so far, and he wondered if the differing technology meant she didn't exist.

He hadn't seen any sign of MAX, either.

"Good, you're all here," Not-Dad said, looking up from his desk as the others found seats.

"Dad, we can't seriously be having a debrief with _him_ in the room?" Other-Alan demanded.

" _Alan_ ," Other-Scott interjected before Not-Dad could reply. "If he wants to be here, he can."

"Scott, how do we know we can even trust him? Where's our proof he knows anything about International Rescue?" the blond demanded.

"Did you pay any attention to the clothes he arrived in, Alan?" Other-John asked, and the younger man frowned heavily.

"What's that got to do with anything?" he snapped defensively.

"I'll be honest, I don't think any of us paid much attention to his clothes," Other-Virgil admitted. "What are you referring to, John?"

Scott realised what was coming and was already on his feet by the time the space monitor looked at him. The badge on his shoulder wasn't obvious if they weren't looking for it.

"See for yourself," he said, striding out of the room to a _hey_ from the irritable young man. One thing was for sure – Alan was _not_ growing up to be that argumentative as an adult. He didn't think he'd be able to stand it. Locating his uniform in the guest room that was currently his, and leaving everything except the flight suit in the closest where he'd stashed it, he strode back to the lounge and tossed it at Other-Alan. "Right shoulder."

"Right-?" Other-Alan started, making a disgruntled face. "Urgh, it's sweaty."

Scott rolled his eyes. "I did just get back from a rescue." The others crowded around the two of them; even Not-Dad left his desk to get a closer look as Other-Alan finally located the shoulder in question and froze.

"What's this?"

"What does it _look_ like?" Scott retorted, knowing full well what he was looking at.

"Thunderbird One… International Rescue," Other-Virgil read out. "Well, I guess that settles it." He turned to face Other-John's image. "How did you know?"

"Brains saw it when he was looking at the equipment he had with him," Other-John shrugged.

"What equipment?" Other-Alan sneered, lifting the flight suit and shaking it. "I don't see any equipment." Scott snatched it back.

"Aside from the built-in telemetry, it's all still in my room," he said. "My gear doesn't _seem_ like it works here, but I'm not taking chances. I think the last thing you want is Thunderbird One trying to launch itself."

"What?" Other-Scott yelped, lunging for his lamps.

"You have built-in telemetry?" Other-John asked as the wall section swung around, taking Other-Scott with it. "And why would Thunderbird One launch itself?"

Scott shook his head.

"Different gear," he reminded him. "All our uniforms are linked to Thunderbird Five – measuring things like pulse, blood pressure, body temperature. That sort of stuff, so John doesn't have to wait for us to tell him if something's gone wrong."

"I want that," Other-John said immediately. To Scott's surprise, Other-Alan muttered something that sounded like agreement.

The wall rotated again and Other-Scott reappeared, looking calmer.

"She's not going anywhere," he reported, before narrowing his eyes at Scott. "What did you mean, she might launch herself?"

"I doubt it'll happen," Scott assured him, finding his chair again and sitting down, flight suit on his lap. "It's coded to my Thunderbird One, so chances are the remote controls won't do anything, especially as my communicator doesn't work, but I'm keeping them locked away to be safe. I don't want _either_ Thunderbird One responding to them when yours is different tech and I can't see mine."

"Your Thunderbirds can be remote controlled?" Not-Dad frowned, and Scott sighed.

"I thought we were here for a debrief, not another round of twenty questions," he said pointedly, filing away the titbit that this universe's Thunderbirds didn't have built in remote control under 'technological differences'. The look he got in return informed him that Not-Dad didn't appreciate his authority being undermined, but the older man returned to his desk and steepled his fingers together.

That appeared to be the signal for the rest of them to stop standing around and re-find their seats. Remembering Other-Gordon's words from earlier, Scott settled back comfortably and reminded himself that he didn't know enough about their technology to interrupt. Clutching his flight suit in his hands, the material familiar under his fingers all he had left of _home_ , he turned to glance at Other-Scott, who acknowledged him with a faint nod before directing his own attention to his father.

Scott followed suit.

"John called in an issue with Shackleton Power Plant," Not-Dad began, and Scott started, clenching his flight suit tightly in his fist. That was a nuclear facility – hadn't it blown several years ago? "The report stated two workers trapped inside – Scott?" For a split second, Scott thought Not-Dad was addressing him and his reaction, before Other-Scott started talking.

That was going to get very confusing.

"I arrived at the danger zone at eleven thirty two, Island time. The contact was a Cameron Agnew, the site's Superior Safety Engineer, who informed me that the temperature had reached critical levels inside the building. Two operators had failed to get out before the blast doors closed, sealing them in, and while the external control tower could be used to lower the temperature, the method was not safe for human exposure and so couldn't be used until the two men were evacuated. I set up Mobile Control by Thunderbird One as there wasn't enough security around to leave the ship secure and analysed the building schematics Mr Agnew supplied," Other-Scott began.

It took all of Scott's self-control not to interrupt, wondering why Other-John on Thunderbird Five hadn't got access to the building schematics long before Thunderbird One had arrived at the danger zone. Mobile Control was a brand new term to him – Other-Scott had mentioned it back on the trail, but hadn't explained what it was then, and it seemed there was no explanation coming now, either. _Different technology_ , he reminded himself, looking down at his lap, where his flight suit – _not_ sweaty, thank you Other-Alan – was firmly clamped between his fingers.

Other-Scott was still talking, describing how they'd had radio contact with the two trapped workers and the plan he'd devised to get them out, based on the schematics he'd had at his disposal. Other-Gordon had said it had to have been a simple mission, for them to have been back so quickly, and Scott could appreciate that as his counterpart described the obedience of the operators do to as they were told, and how everything was organised and in position even before Thunderbird Two arrived with the bulk of their gear.

Scott found himself impressed with how smoothly the rescue had gone as Other-Virgil took up the narrative, describing how he'd landed where Other-Scott had instructed and had piloted the Mole – which _had_ to be their version of a Mole Pod – to dig its way underneath the blast doors while Other-Alan had used a 'Domo' – Scott had _no_ idea what that was supposed to be – to support them from collapsing while they were tunnelled under.

Two operators rescued successfully, temperature supressed remotely as soon as they were safe, and the structural integrity of the building was maintained after they filled the Mole's track back in. Practically a textbook rescue, and Not-Dad seemed pleased with the outcome. Even though he had no personal stake in it – this wasn't _his_ International Rescue – Scott found himself similarly pleased. There was no better rush than a rescue that went smoothly, without complications. In Scott's experience, those were rare.

"Well done, boys," Not-Dad said after the recounting was done and Other-Alan and Other-John made their own contributions. "A successful rescue once again; I'm proud of you." Scott flinched involuntarily at the words, having made the mistake of looking at the older man just as he said it. Just one more thing he'd never hear his father say again.

"Are you okay?" Other-Virgil asked, and when he turned to face him he realised they were all watching him.

"Fine," he snapped defensively, not enjoying being scrutinised. Other-Gordon had a look that was almost pitying, and Scott realised he had enough of the story to realise what had caused that reaction. None of the others did, although Other-John looked calculating and if he was anything like John, as Scott suspected he _was_ , he was well on the way to drawing the right conclusions. The others all looked to be varying levels of confused – except Other-Alan, who was frowning. Again. Did he do anything _other_ than frown?

"You don't _look_ fine," the young man pointed out waspishly. Scott scowled at him.

"Alan." Once again it was Other-Scott chiding his brother, drawing out the name warningly. Other-Alan huffed.

"I'm just saying he's lying," the blond muttered petulantly. Scott couldn't quite believe he was supposed to be twenty – Alan had outgrown those sorts of remarks at least a year ago, for the most part at least. He _was_ stilla teenager, after all.

"And how do you suppose you would be if you found yourself in another universe?" Other-Virgil pointed out reasonably. "Give the fella some slack, Alan."

Other-Alan grumbled but fell quiet.

"Does anyone else have anything to say about the mission?" Not-Dad asked, dragging them back on topic.

"No, father," the four brothers involved chorused, and he nodded his head, satisfied.

"In that case," Not-Dad continued, "the next thing to be dealt with is clothing for Scott. As has been pointed out, he cannot continue wearing our Scott's clothes."

"Or the same underwear," Other-Gordon muttered, just loud enough to be heard by the room. Scott gave him a half-hearted glare as Other-Virgil reached across to cuff him lightly. Other-Alan made a noise of disgust but Scott ignored him, as did his brothers.

"Someone will need take him to the mainland for shopping," Not-Dad continued, with only a disapproving glare directed at Other-Gordon to acknowledge the interruption. "Normally, I would say Scott, but that would prompt too many awkward questions. Virgil, you go."

"Yes, father," Other-Virgil said, making to stand.

"No," Scott said, mouth moving before his brain realised what it was saying. "I'll go with Gordon." A look of surprise crossed Other-Virgil's face, and something Scott didn't want to analyse too closely. Offence? Disappointment?

No, Scott didn't what to know what he was thinking.

"You realise we're not letting you pilot, right?" Other-Scott asked, eyebrow raised. Scott sighed, finding his way to his feet.

"Different technology," he said blandly. "I know. Are you telling me he can't pilot a plane?" He didn't want to go with any of them – enforced one-on-one time was begging for an interrogation – but at least he'd already got the worst of it out of the way with Other-Gordon.

"Not as well as I can," Other-Virgil hedged, although he was already sinking back down into his chair as though he could tell Scott wouldn't be changing his mind. Maybe he could.

It was the look Not-Dad shot Other-Gordon that cemented it. So far, all he'd had was Other-John's vague word and some less-hidden reactions from Other-Gordon to bring him to the conclusion that he was being treated like glass, but that look was all too much like the ones he'd seen on his own face in the immediate aftermath of his own Gordon's crash. The same look he had to fight whenever he sent Alan out in Thunderbird Three without him. The _I don't want to let you out of my sight in case you get hurt_ look.

"Virgil-"

"I'll go, Father," Other-Gordon cut in, voice hard. "Virgil's just got back from a rescue. Let him rest."

"I can-"

Other-Gordon ignored his older brother, turning to face Scott with the faint ghost of a grin on his face. "No backseat piloting from you."

It had been a _very_ long time since anyone had piloted Scott anywhere – occasional trips in Thunderbirds Two and Three notwithstanding. He couldn't say he was looking forwards to the experience, especially as he was asking the _aquanaut_ to get behind the plane's controls.

"No promises," he offered, finding a small grin on his face. Other-Gordon groaned.

"Let's get this over with," he said. "Hey, Scott, you got a hat for him to wear? Otherwise the world's going to think you're going grey."

Other-Scott had been reclining in the chair, but at Other-Gordon's words shot to his feet, glowering at his younger brother before turning to face Scott.

"Come on." He gestured towards the door. "If the world's going to think you're me, you are _not_ ruining my image."

"I still don't see the problem," Scott shrugged, but followed. He could at least appreciate the sort of damage paparazzi could do, and despite everything he wasn't about to throw Other-Scott under the press bus if he could help it.

"The problem is that you're wrecking my shirts and my image," Other-Scott muttered, pushing open his bedroom door. "The former we're dealing with by getting you your own, but there's not much we can do about the latter; seeing how the world knows I don't have a twin and _doesn't_ know about your visit from an alternate universe, anyone who sees you _will_ think you're me."

Scott sat down on the end of the bed as Other-Scott rummaged through his closet, scowling as a dark brown waistcoat was thrust in front of him.

"So what do I need to know?" he asked, picking up the offending item of clothing dubiously.

"More than I've got time to tell you if you want your own clothes today," Other-Scott retorted. "Put that on, and do those buttons up."

Scott grumbled, muttering under his breath about stupid fashions, but obeyed.

"Follow Gordon's lead, don't talk to anyone – Gordon can talk enough for both of you and won't say anything irreparable – and ignore anyone with a camera," Other-Scott told him; Scott would have bristled if it didn't all make sense. "I'm not sure why you wanted Gordon over Virgil, but I'd say it was the right call. Virgil's not great with the paparazzi, but Gordon can handle them."

"What are my chances of _avoiding_ them?" Scott asked dryly, aware that if it was anything like home, practically nil. Other-Scott sent him a sympathetic look.

"Our cover is that we're all lazy playboys living off of Dad's fortune," he informed him, and that was useful information to know, even if Scott didn't like where it was headed. "It works wonders – even visitors to the island have never suspected we're International Rescue – but for it to work, we need the papers. They'll scrutinise _everything_ they see you buy, too. What are you planning?"

"You're not telling me what I can and can't buy," Scott bristled. "Casual shirts, jeans, sneakers. Seriously, how do you not have sneakers?"

"I have sneakers," Other-Scott said, amused. "Just not in my room." Scott groaned and glared at the shoes he was currently wearing.

"You mean I didn't _have_ to wear these?" he complained. "Where are they?"

"You are _not_ wearing sneakers to the mainland," Other-Scott rebuked, before sighing himself. "Look, I know you want your own clothes, and it sounds a lot like your universe has different standards, but while I won't say a word about what you wear _on_ the island, whenever you're on the mainland you might as well be me. If you _must_ get jeans, at least get the expensive ones." He withdrew a fedora and eyed it critically before handing it to him. "That should hide the differences in our hair."

Feeling suffocated, Scott reluctantly put it on his head. He hadn't worn a hat in a long time, and definitely not a fedora.

"Sunglasses," Other-Scott said, brandishing a pair of square-rimmed ones. "That should do enough." Scott put them on, squinting as the room went a few shades darker.

"Are you ladies done in here?" Other-Gordon asked, leaning against the doorway. Other-Scott rolled his eyes.

"I'm holding you personally accountable for anything that ends up in the papers," he told his younger brother firmly. Other-Gordon grinned.

"Which of us don't you trust?" he asked rhetorically – Scott knew full well the answer was 'neither' – before shifting his attention to Scott. "Come on, Scott. Sooner we leave, sooner you get to change your underpants."

"Do you _have_ to keep bringing that up?" Scott demanded.

"He's Gordon," Other-Scott said, as though that explained it. It did. "I do appreciate you not borrowing mine, though." Scott rolled his eyes.

"Let me just put my flight suit away and then I'm ready," he replied, brushing past Other-Gordon and heading for his designated room. Other-Gordon followed him, but to his relief Other-Scott stayed where he was.

"You look _respectable_ , now," the aquanaut commented, although Scott wasn't so sure that was a compliment. He chose not to respond as he carefully folded up his flight suit and put it back with the rest of his gear, out of sight. "Ready?"

"You'll have to show me another hangar now," Scott informed him dryly, and Other-Gordon laughed.

"As if keeping any Scott Tracy from planes for any length of time is possible," he grinned. "Come on then, and remember you're not piloting."

"I know, I know," Scott grumbled, but followed the younger man from his designated room, past Other-Scott's still open door and then past the stairs – much to his consternation – and into the elevator, which clanged shut ominously behind him. He didn't jump, but it was a close thing, and Other-Gordon eyed him as he punched in a button.

"Claustrophobic?"

Scott choked back a laugh, thinking of his launch tube, which was both smaller and faster than the elevator they were currently travelling down in – and then down again, past the ground floor and into darkness. "Hardly."

Artificial light streamed in through the metal, and Scott watched an impressive array of planes come into sight – all civilian. No sign of the other Thunderbirds, and there was a large part of him disappointed by that revelation. Then again, if they were keeping International Rescue secret, he supposed keeping their public craft in the same hangar would raise some awkward questions.

"Is that a Tiger Moth?" he asked, spying a plane that seemed mid-restoration. "I haven't seen one of those in years!" Other-Gordon shrugged.

"Alan's pet project," he explained. "If he's not tinkering with cars, he's playing with that." Scott couldn't blame him – it looked like a beauty. "Scott's banned from touching it, by the way." Other-Gordon sounded amused. "We'll take Tin-Tin's girl – Ladybird."

Scott tore his eyes away from the Tiger Moth to see Other-Gordon pointing at a small plane, positioned near the hangar door. Compared to many of the other craft, it didn't look particularly special, or fast, and he sent a longing glance over at a sleek blue plane that looked designed for speed. Other-Gordon followed his gaze and laughed.

"That's Scott's baby," he told him. "Well, the one that isn't Thunderbird One. I'm banned from so much as breathing on it under pain of very painful death, so no matter what you say, we're not taking her. I have clearance to take the Ladybird, and _only_ the Ladybird, so the Ladybird it is."

The elevator came to a smooth stop, and Scott followed Other-Gordon as he made a beeline for the Ladybird, despite wanting to stop and explore the planes some more. They looked _familiar_ in a way so much hadn't since he'd woken up in the infirmary, and he stopped dead at the top of the steps into the Ladybird's cockpit.

He knew those controls. He'd flown planes with those controls. While none of his current planes – Thunderbirds or Tracy Jets – used those, they were just like his old training plane. _Their_ old training plane, the one Grandma had taught Dad to fly in, and in turn Dad had taught him – and he'd taught Gordon and Alan. His chest stuttered, nostalgia crushing his lungs, and without thinking he stepped towards the pilot chair.

A hand jabbed him in the back.

"The passenger seat is the one on the right," Other-Gordon reminded him. Scott sent a longing look at the controls, but the hand jabbed him again and he reluctantly moved, allowing Other-Gordon to slither past him into the pilot seat and begin pre-flight checks. Resigned to being a reluctant passenger, and realising that not doing any backseat piloting was going to be a lot harder now he could see that _this_ technology was the same, Scott slid into the passenger seat and clipped himself in.

It was obvious that Other-Gordon wasn't quite as used to piloting than his Gordon, or at least not this particular jet, and Scott bit his lip to stop himself from offering unwelcome advice as the younger man haltingly pulled them through the pre-flight checks. Other-Gordon glanced at him out of the corner of his eye as he finished fuel checks and groaned.

"I knew you'd be a terrible passenger. Remember – no backseat piloting."

"I know," Scott sighed, tearing his eyes away from the control panel and instead looking out of the cockpit window at the other planes in an attempt to distract himself. Behind them, the engine purred into life, familiar vibrations passing through his seat, and he forced himself to stay relaxed as the hangar door swung open to reveal the runway he'd seen from the narrow corridor in the villa.

The palm trees that lined it on either side didn't move as Other-Gordon taxied them out, but the Ladybird was relatively small as far as jets went. Scott had no doubt that Thunderbird Two also used this runway – although he couldn't look back to see what hid the entrance – and that the trees did need to somehow lean back out of the way for International Rescue's behemoth to pass by. At home, the palm trees were more of a reminder of their old legacy – _Operation Cover-Up_ , as it was called here – than any real camouflage. It would be simple enough to remove them – the only hidden entrance that _was_ possible to remove, as Gordon would murder him if he even considered getting rid of the pool, and the round house disguising Thunderbird Three's launch was just as integral – but they all liked the bowing trees, and it was always fun to watch people's confusion as they wondered how Thunderbird Two fit on the runway. More than one person had theorised that Thunderbird Two had a hidden, VTOL launch, just as they assumed Thunderbird One did.

Scott never knew if he should be insulted that everyone thought his 'bird could only do VTOL, or quietly smug that no-one else could figure out his girl.

"Ladybird to Base, requesting clearance for take-off," Other-Gordon said suddenly. The radio crackled temporarily, before Not-Dad's voice emerged in response.

"Base to Ladybird, clearance granted. Fly safe, Gordon. Scott, keep your head down and remember you're a Tracy."

"F.A.B.," Other-Gordon chirped, before Scott could formulate a response to that. _Remember you're a Tracy_? Scott couldn't forget that even if he wanted to, but he wasn't part of _this_ Tracy family. Was Not-Dad giving him an unnecessary reminder that he was effectively pretending to be this universe's Scott Tracy, or did he mean something else by it?

What else _could_ he mean by it? He didn't belong here, with this _other_ Tracy family. There was no place for him here, and a gaping hole in _his_ family, where he should be.

Analysing Not-Dad's intentions, along with everything else to do with the man, gave him an uncomfortable taste in his mouth and he shunted it all into a box in the back of his mind to be analysed later, or preferably never. He was going to buy – or rather, Other-Gordon was going to buy, because _he_ certainly hadn't been given any money – what he wanted, and not conform to expectations. Other-Scott hadn't seemed too opposed to his brief shopping list, so Scott was taking that as permission.

"Here we go," Other-Gordon said, and Scott felt the familiar g-force of a jet picking up speed. Nothing like a Thunderbird, but he hadn't expected that. It was still a solid kick, though, more so than he _had_ expected from that sort of jet. Either that was a standard universe difference, or Brains had done some tinkering. Whichever it was, Scott wasn't complaining.

Out of the window, he watched the land fall away. As they were travelling directly away from the island in what seemed to be a south westerly direction, from the position of the clouds and the dials on the dashboard, he couldn't see much of the island even if he twisted around.

"You'll see it when we come back," Other-Gordon pointed out, sounding amused, and feeling like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Scott slowly turned back around to face forwards again, casting an eye over the instrumentation panel out of habit. "Gee, you're insatiable, aren't you? Fine, go stare out the window, if that stops you judging my piloting."

"I don't _need_ to judge your piloting," Scott retorted, although he did concede to looking out at the thin cloud layer they were approaching rather than what Other-Gordon was doing. "You're an aquanaut, not a pilot."

"I still have a pilot's license," Other-Gordon reminded him, a little sulkily. "If you wanted a _pilot_ , you should have gone with Virg, or even Alan. I'm sure we could have pulled some strings to miraculously give Scott a twin and you two could have spent some quality time bonding over speed if you'd _really_ wanted. I really don't have the foggiest why you insisted on _me_."

Scott looked at him out of the corner of his eye, eyebrow raised.

"You don't?"

Other-Gordon grumbled.

"Well, if I had to guess, I'd say you didn't want to be trapped with someone you hadn't already sworn to silence, and as that leaves me and John, there's not much of a choice," he pointed out. "You know, none of the fellas would ask questions if you asked them not to?"

"And have them stewing in curiosity the whole time instead?" Scott asked dubiously. "That would be _worse_."

"I suppose you have a point," Other-Gordon conceded. "But this is the only time I fly you anywhere. You want my company so badly next time, we go by boat."

That was such a _Gordon_ response that it should have hurt, like all those times Other-Alan had felt like _his_ Alan, but somehow, it didn't. Instead, Scott just laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter I’ve already got prewritten, so this may be the last chapter for a while. I refuse to rush this just to fit to a schedule, and with uni work kicking in and now TAG Secret Santa, I have other things with more important deadlines, but I am still working on this one. Chapter 8 is partially written, but also throwing me for some wobblies, so I don’t know how long it’ll take to finish... Just a warning that the regular weekend updates may have come to an end for now.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a panic attack in this chapter.

The coastline of New Zealand looked more or less the same as Scott was used to when they finally arrived. The analogue dial of Other-Scott's watch continued to taunt him, but if he had to guess, the journey had taken somewhere between one and two hours, and had largely passed in silence. Whether that was because Other-Gordon needed to concentrate on piloting, or simply because he was still holding up his promise of no more questions, Scott wasn't sure, but he appreciated it regardless.

Being a passenger instead of the pilot was always an odd situation, and more than once he'd caught himself trying to shift imaginary controls in response to the clouds and air streams they passed through. If Other-Gordon had noticed, he hadn't commented.

"Tango Alpha Ladybird to Auckland Air Traffic Control, requesting permission to land, over." Beneath them, the city sprawled almost coast to coast, and Scott peered down, looking for familiar landmarks. Some of them were there, some of them were not. As low as they were flying – heading for the airport, no doubt – the Sky Tower should have been easily visible, but its distinctive shape was absent.

It shouldn't have surprised him. Sky Tower was a telecommunications tower, and he'd already discovered that this universe didn't use the same type of technology that he was used to, so its lack of presence made sense. But it had always been there, built sometime before the millennium and a major aspect of Auckland's skyline. He'd flown past it many times, and even used it as an unofficial navigation point.

For it to be not there, either destroyed or never existed in the first place, reminded him that no matter how familiar some things might be, he really wasn't home.

_I don't think we're in Kansas anymore_ , was a line famously quoted from an old movie. Scott had a bit of a soft spot for the Wizard of Oz – old fantasy films in general – but he'd never imagined he'd ever be playing the part of Dorothy.

At least Dorothy still had Toto, he mused sadly. If only he'd taken Mini-MAX with him on that mission, then maybe he wouldn't be entirely alone… if Mini-MAX would even have been able to operate without a network to link into. Most likely, he'd have had nothing but the inactive husk of the small bot. Scott wasn't sure if that would have been better or worse.

"Auckland Air Traffic Control to Tango Alpha Ladybird, clearance granted for runway four-bravo, over," the radio crackled, yanking him back to the present.

"Tango Alpha Ladybird to Auckland Air Traffic Control, copy that, over," Other-Gordon acknowledged. Scott watched him adjust their angle of approach accordingly and kept his mouth shut as the landing gear engaged and they gently touched down onto the tarmac scant minutes later. Other-Gordon visibly relaxed as soon as they were safely down, taxiing his way carefully over to a hangar emblazoned with a large _T.A._ As they entered, Scott could see several planes inside of various sizes and designs.

The one thing they had in common was the _T.A._ on their tails, identical to the letters on the hangar, and Scott found himself wondering what it stood for. Other-Gordon had used the same two letters as a callsign, and he eyed the nearest plane – a much larger one than the Ladybird – as Gordon rolled them to a gentle stop.

"What does T.A. stand for?" he asked, suspecting that Other-Scott would know that and having no wish to get caught out and face awkward conversations. _This_ was the sort of information he'd tried to get out of his doppelgänger, but either he'd thought he would already know, or it was so basic he forgot about it.

The incredulous look he got from Other-Gordon as the man paused his post-flight checks suggested it was the former.

"Tracy Aerospace," he said. "Dad's company. Doesn't it exist in your universe? I thought you said you were a billionaire!"

"I am," Scott grumbled, "and it does, but it's Tracy _Industries_."

"Right," Other-Gordon said, going back to the post-flight checks. "Rule number one: no talking."

"Wha-"

"You look like Scott but you don't _sound_ like my brother and that's something folks'll notice, especially around here. The fellas on the ground know Scott well, so you've lost your voice. That's the story."

That made sense, but how was Scott supposed to tell Other-Gordon what he was looking for if he wasn't allowed to talk? He asked as such as the younger man finished up the last of the checks and undid his harness.

The aquanaut just shrugged. "What are you after? Underpants… what else?"

Scott chose to ignore the not so subtle dig; it was getting old, but no doubt Other-Gordon wouldn't let it go until he'd got changed, and likely not even then.

"Casual shirts, jeans and sneakers." He repeated the list he'd given Other-Scott earlier and watched Other-Gordon's face at the word 'jeans'. He didn't look particularly pleased, but Scott wasn't going to back down on those. "Should probably pick up a hoodie or two as well. Pyjamas and shoes, too."

"There is _no way_ Scott said yes to a hoodie," Other-Gordon frowned. "Hoodie and jeans? Those are _workshop_ clothes; do you fellas really wear those?" Scott bristled, and he raised his hands. "Look, I am all for getting items that'll make Scott go crazy, but I don't want to be murdered in my sleep because the media thinks he's gone cuckoo, so give me a minute to come up with a reason that _won't_ wreck his public image for the next decade."

Scott frowned, but before he could say anything else, Other-Gordon grinned and pushed at his wrist watch. There was a dial tone for several moments before the string of numbers was replaced by Other-Scott's face. The other man looked concerned and a little suspicious. Scott supposed he hadn't been expecting the call, and an unexpected call from a younger brother was definitely cause for concern – especially when it was a Gordon.

"Hey there, Scott!" Other-Gordon chirped in a tone that immediately had Scott on edge, even though it wasn't aimed at him. The faux-innocent, sing-song voice meant _trouble_ , and he felt slightly guilty for whatever chaos was about to fall Other-Scott's way.

Other-Scott dropped all pretence of concern and frowned at him in full-blown suspicion.

"You've only just _arrived_ ," he said slowly. "You can't have got in trouble _already_."

"You underestimate me, brother dear," Other-Gordon scoffed, before pulling a sickly-sweet grin onto his face. Other-Scott's expression went from suspicious to mildly horrified, and Scott couldn't stand it anymore.

"Gordon," he warned, loud enough for the watch to pick him up. While he was all up for pranks, he couldn't quite bring himself to let his counterpart be on the receiving end of one he was involved in. It felt uncomfortably like pranking himself.

Other-Gordon huffed. "You're no fun," he sulked, before turning back to the watch. Other-Scott, Scott was pleased to see, had lost the look of horror and was back in the realms of confusion. "Say, Scott, how do you feel about being a trend-setter?"

And the look of horror was straight back.

" _What_?" Other-Scott demanded. "Setting _what_ trend? I'm not a fashion icon, Gordon! Set your own trends."

Other-Gordon hummed thoughtfully. "That's a fine plan, Scott, except anything I buy will be too small for him to wear, which somewhat defeats the objective."

Other-Scott made a noise of frustration. "I told you, Gordon. Anything that ends up in the media is your fault."

"Did you say that knowing your clone here wants _hoodies_?" Other-Gordon asked, eyebrow raised. Other-Scott choked. "Because he does and I know better than to try and talk him out of it."

"Hoodies?" Other-Scott looked bordering on mortified. "Dad would _kill_ me." Something that could be guilt coiled in Scott's gut; no matter what his feelings were about Not-Dad's existence, the idea of Other-Scott getting in trouble with him on his behalf didn't settle well. Other-Scott shook his head. "I can't believe I'm saying this, Gordon, but what's your plan?"

"I figured we could pass it off as experimentation," Other-Gordon shrugged. "But you're not well known for that so it would cause a stir."

"You're right about that," Other-Scott mused, and Scott shook his head.

"I guess I don't need one," he offered reluctantly – he wanted one, but there was mildly inconveniencing someone and there was ruining someone's reputation.

"No." Other-Scott shook his head firmly. "We'll make this work."

"Well, it's your funeral," Other-Gordon muttered, before a grin slowly spread across his face. "You know, fellas, I think I've got it!"

"Do I want to know?" Other-Scott asked dubiously.

"It's simple," Other-Gordon continued as though his older brother hadn't spoken. "We all know you wouldn't willingly wear one, so we make it unwilling. Scott, you lost a bet."

Other-Scott ran a hand through his hair. "I suppose that would work," he conceded reluctantly. Scott could see the logic – short term embarrassment at the hands of a younger sibling would barely interest the media, but still explained why he was still in possession of a so-called _workman's_ outfit. "But I'm insisting on custom made. You are _not_ coming back with some cheap off the shelf monstrosity."

"Wouldn't dream of it!" Other-Gordon chirped in a tone that said he had been considering doing exactly that. "We should start moving now, though. Jones is coming over and I think he wants to know why we haven't left the cockpit yet."

"I can't say I'm in a hurry to have you wrecking my reputation but you probably shouldn't make Jones suspicious," Other-Scott sighed. "Hey, wait – _what_ is this bet I've supposedly lost, Gordon?"

"If you don't know, Dad can't yell at you for it later," Other-Gordon grinned back at him.

" _Gordon_."

"What, don't you trust me?" the ginger asked, pulling a face of fake hurt. Other-Scott scowled at him.

"With my life, yes. _Not_ with my dignity." Scott could relate to that.

"We'll see you later, Scott." Other-Gordon didn't bother responding to the veiled accusation before signing off, returning the watch to actually looking like a watch just as a young man crossed the distance between the neighbouring plane and the Ladybird. "Here we go, remember you've lost your voice and let me do all the talking."

Scott had a sinking feeling that was going to be easier said than done, but obediently followed the other man out of the cockpit just in time for the man on the ground to stride over to them.

"Gordon Tracy, is that you piloting a plane?" said man called, shaking his head in amazement. "Why, I couldn't believe my ears when they told me it was you of all people coming in to land that red beauty of yours!"

"Gee, laugh it up why don't you, Jones," Other-Gordon commented dryly. "I didn't fly all the way here with the worst backseat pilot in the world to get flack from you, too, fella."

The man – Jones – squinted at Scott and for a heart-stopping moment he thought the man had realised he wasn't this universe's Scott, before he burst out laughing. "Scott Tracy letting someone else pilot? Now I've really seen it all. Say, how you been, old chap?" He stuck out his hand and feeling rather like a deer in headlights, Scott took it for a firm shake.

"Ah, Scott's not so good," Other-Gordon intervened before the silence stretched long enough to be awkward. "He's only gone and lost his voice, but there's shopping to be done so yours truly got the short straw." The ginger gave a theatrical wince. "Turns out not having a voice doesn't stop a fella from backseat piloting like crazy. He insisted on checking over all my post-flight checks! I ask you; you'd think he didn't trust me with a plane."

Scott shot him a look. While no doubt if Other-Scott had really lost his voice that all sounded perfectly feasible, he thought the ginger was laying it on a little thick. Other-Gordon caught the look and rolled his eyes.

"Well Mr Just Because I Can't Talk Doesn't Mean I Won't Be A Pain here seems like he wants to get this over and done with," he told Jones. Not strictly inaccurate, Scott supposed, although that hadn't been what he'd meant. Other-Gordon lowered his voice. "Truth be told, he doesn't want to be here; lost a bet and doesn't like the forfeit."

Scott put a warning hand on his shoulder and Other-Gordon laughed. Jones joined in politely, almost as though he wasn't certain what the joke was, or if he should be responding to it.

"I'd say that means 'hurry it up, oh favourite brother of mine'," Other-Gordon translated. "Lock her down for me, would you? There's a good man."

"Yessir," Jones agreed. "Your usual car's been prepared for you. Mr Tracy said you didn't want a chauffeur today?" A chauffeur? No, Scott absolutely didn't want one of those – it was bad enough being piloted by a brother, or brother from another universe, as it happened.

"Not today, Jones," Other-Gordon confirmed. "I wouldn't inflict Scott in this mood on anyone," he winked, and the man gave another awkward chuckle. "I'll handle it all today." Scott jammed his hands in his pockets impatiently. "See you around, Jones."

"Likewise, Gordon, Scott." The man nodded at both of them and Other-Gordon led the way through the hangar unerringly to where a classic vintage-looking convertible was waiting for them. With the roof down, he could see it was a right-hand drive – of course, New Zealand drove on the left; at least that was the same – so without prompting he let himself in to the front left seat and tried not to be too obvious about staring.

Plane controls might have been the same, but cars apparently weren't. If push came to shove, he could probably figure it out – the car was at least an automatic, not stick-shift – but he was quite content to let Other-Gordon take the wheel. Hopefully he wasn't quite as chaotic as his Gordon behind the wheel.

He wasn't. At least, not by Scott's standards. He was, however, still the fastest car on the road, overtaking other cars with manoeuvres just shy of being classified as _swerves_ , with a delighted grin on his face. That, at least, was typically _Gordon_ , and the ache that blossomed in his chest whenever any of the Other-Tracy family did something that reminded him of their counterparts – _his_ Tracy family – made itself known again. Scott fought the instinct to clutch at his chest, instead clinging to the door with a grip far too tight for the situation.

Behind amber-tinted shades, equally amber eyes glanced over at his death grip, but Other-Gordon said nothing. Scott wasn't sure if that was a relief or not – the younger man knew enough to know that these speeds wouldn't phase him in the slightest, which meant he was drawing his own conclusions. Scott had no idea what those conclusions might be, and any desire to ask was quashed by the knowledge that that would open the topic up for conversation.

He'd chosen Other-Gordon to _avoid_ more of that sort of conversation.

"What are we getting first?" he asked, turning his head away from the streets to look at Other-Gordon. With the wind whistling past their ears, the natural inclination was to raise his voice but he consciously kept his voice at normal levels. Other-Gordon should still be able to hear him, if with a bit of difficulty.

The ginger sent him an assessing look before the grin was back, and that look was too much like Gordon's devilish grin for Scott to not know what he was going to say, despite the man not being _his_ Gordon.

"You can't stay in the same underpants forever!"

Scott groaned, the hand not gripping the door catching his face – _ow_ , he forgot about the shades. He left it there, acutely aware that with any Gordon around in a non-professional setting, the facepalm was never far away.

"Okay, new underpants. Then what?"

Other-Gordon laughed, looping them around another car as the bulk of the city approached, before settling into something that seemed like he might, vaguely, be taking the excursion seriously. Whether that was due to Other-Scott's threats – which he did seem to be wary of – or because he was actually mindful of Scott's own wishes, he had no idea. If he had to guess, probably the former. Scott wished his Gordon respected _his_ threats against causing chaos.

Then again, he'd never had a doppelgänger, let alone one subsequently left in the hands of his prank-loving brother.

"Francois Lemaire has a new men's range out," he shrugged. "Might as well start there."

" _Lemaire_?" Scott asked, his voice strangled. Other-Gordon gave him a sharp look.

"He's Tin-Tin's favourite designer," the younger man said. "She suggested him."

Lemaire? _Designer?_ Admittedly, Scott didn't know what the rich airhead _did_ when he wasn't throwing himself in mortal danger and complaining loudly when they had to rescue him from his own stupidity, but he found it hard to believe that between birthday parties in the Mariana Trench and throwing himself into the coma of a comet he was designing _clothes_.

"Problem?" Other-Gordon asked, and Scott realised he was scowling. Taking a deep breath, he forced his expression to smooth out again.

"He won't be there, will he?" he asked. "If he's anything like the Lemaire _I_ know, there is a high chance I'll be losing my temper."

"What's wrong with Lemaire?" Other-Gordon actually sounded _confused_ , which was enough for Scott to cling to the hope that maybe, _maybe_ , the man wasn't such an idiot here.

"Birthday party in the Mariana Trench," he groaned. "Flying into a comet. Hunting _mermaids_." And that was just the tip of the iceberg. "He calls us _International Babysitting Service_ now."

The hiss Other-Gordon let out implied the other man found that all as ridiculous – and insulting – as Scott did. "I guess that fella's not your favourite human," he observed. "We've not had those sorts of problems with him." That was a relief. "I doubt he'll be here, though. Fella lives in France."

That was another relief, although Scott wasn't going to relax entirely until they were done with the man's shop. It would be just his luck that this universe's Lemaire would be dropping by for a visit when he was there, and that was not a meeting he wanted.

"Then we might as well see if his range contains anything I want to wear," he shrugged, realising that he hadn't actually agreed or disagreed with Other-Gordon's suggestion. The younger man groaned as he pulled into a parking lot tucked behind a large building emblazoned with _Lemaire_.

"You're not going to be too fussy, are you?" he asked. Scott detected a tone of dread behind what was clearly supposed to be a rhetorical question.

"Not if they have decent clothes," he answered, and Other-Gordon made another disgruntled noise as he killed the ignition.

"Sure. Now, remember: you're my brother, you've lost your voice, I'm doing all the talking." Scott rolled his eyes but nodded in agreement. "Underpants, shirts, _jeans_ , pyjamas, shoes and a _custom hoodie_." Other-Gordon still didn't seem too happy about some of those things, even with Other-Scott's blessing, reluctant though it had been. "Am I forgetting anything?"

Scott shook his head and Other-Gordon jumped out of the car, casually circling around to open Scott's door before he realised the lever needed to be pulled, not pushed. What happened to doors opening at the touch of a button? He was really starting to miss familiar technology.

Maybe he could persuade Other-Gordon to let him pilot back to the island.

First, though, he had to get through this shopping trip so he could stop having to borrow Other-Scott's clothes. Stepping out of the car, he followed Other-Gordon into the shop.

It was exactly the sort of ordered chaos Scott expected from clothes shopping. Mannequins flanked the entrance, decked out in what was presumably the latest fashions but looked totally bizarre to Scott, while a woman decked out in equally outrageous clothes – not Gordon-outrageous, but _so much fabric_ outrageous – bustled forwards to greet them. Behind her, equally awfully dressed men and women were guiding around customers who just _screamed_ 'I'm rich'.

Scott was immediately reminded exactly why he did as much clothes shopping as he could get away with online.

"Monsieur Tracy, Monsieur Tracy," the woman greeted them. "My name is Madeleine; how may I be of assistance today?"

Automatically, Scott opened his mouth to answer, but Other-Gordon jumped in before he managed to make a sound. "Scott's looking for a new wardrobe," he said smoothly, drawing the woman's attention to him and away from Scott, who inwardly scolded himself for forgetting that he wasn't supposed to talk. "Could we see your shirt selection?"

"Of course, Monsieur," Madeleine replied. "If you would follow me?" She posed it as a question but began to walk further into the shop without waiting for a reply. Scott and Other-Gordon stepped forwards at the same time, following the woman through a maze of clothes and other customers before arriving in a booth lined with lavish couches. "Please, take a seat." Madeleine gestured to one of the couches and Scott took the invitation. Other-Gordon settled down beside him and immediately reached out for what appeared to be a physical, gloss-paper, brochure on the table. He flipped through it for a moment before passing it over.

Scott accepted it and saw that Other-Gordon had already opened it to the shirts for him.

"Did Monsieur have a particular style in mind?" Madeleine asked after a moment. Not knowing the jargon as well as perhaps Grandma would have liked, and unable to speak without inviting awkward questions anyway, Scott shrugged.

"You'll have to forgive my brother," Other-Gordon jumped in before she could take offence. "The fella's lost his voice."

"Oh," she gasped softly. "My apologies, Monsieur Tracy."

Scott shot her a reassuring smile even as Other-Gordon waved off her apology. "Don't worry about it. I'm here to work as a translator."

Leaving Other-Gordon to keep the woman occupied in conversation, Scott leant back and flicked through the brochure, eyeing the various outrageous shirts – apparently this universe's Lemaire liked to design clothes with far too much excess fabric – before finally locating something that looked simple enough. He'd still have to roll the sleeves up and worry at the collar until it sat comfortably, but it definitely looked like something he could wear comfortably enough.

He prodded Other-Gordon in the ribs; sharp amber eyes snapped over to him, wide in surprise for a split second before narrowing.

"You found something?" the younger man asked, after a pause that felt just a little too long. Scott nodded, belatedly realising he had no idea if that sort of thing was acceptable sibling behaviour in this universe. Realising he couldn't clarify anything while he was pretending to have lost his voice, he pushed the thought aside to deal with later, and prodded at the picture on the page.

Madeleine made a motion to look over, and Scott swivelled the brochure so that she could see the one he'd chosen.

"A wonderful choice, Monsieur Tracy," she beamed, while Other-Gordon made a sound that could be amused. He didn't say whatever it was he was thinking, though, instead joining in the conversation when the woman asked how many and pulled out another brochure of fabrics and patterns.

"I dare say a few wouldn't go amiss," Other-Gordon told her – although Scott suspected it was a prod at him as well. He zoned out the rest of the conversation as he stared at the ridiculous variety of colours and tried to find the sensible blues. He had no desire to adopt Gordon's sense of fashion, or John's for that matter.

He suspected John might quite _like_ some of the horrors he was hurriedly passing by. He'd never understood his immediate brother's taste in clothes.

Finally, a nice plain blue, not too far off his favourite shirt at home, caught his eye, and after inspecting it to make sure there weren't any hidden patterns he tapped at the glossy paper to draw their attention.

"The fella likes blue," Other-Gordon shrugged at Madeleine as she pulled out a notepad and pen from somewhere and started scribbling down. "But Scott, are you really only going to get the one design? That's a lot of identical shirts."

Regretting zoning out the conversation about exactly how many Other-Gordon had decided he would be getting, Scott instead raised an eyebrow at him, a look his younger brothers all knew meant _don't try me_. From the grin Other-Gordon gave him, he understood exactly what it meant, but was also as unimpressed by the warning as Gordon ever was. With some reluctance, because yes, variety _was_ nice and he suspected Other-Gordon was actually telling him that buying many identical shirts was not an Other-Scott-like thing to do, he returned to the sample images and tried to find some others that didn't look like something John would wear – or worse, something not even Gordon or John would be caught dead in.

Fashion was ridiculous here.

He was certain his choices were being memorised by the too-sharp ginger next to him as he dug out the designs he was willing to wear and had them scribbled down by an eager to please Madeleine, no doubt being added to whatever mental databank Other-Gordon was compiling about him. Maybe it would be worth dragging the differences between him and Other-Scott out of the aquanaut at some point on the flight back, if only to try and get a better understanding of what he was – temporarily, he hoped – going to be dealing with.

None of his training – Air Force, International Rescue or business – had ever covered what to do when faced with a doppelgänger of himself that wasn't the Hood in disguise, and while Not-Dad was proving to be a problem, he didn't have any plans to alienate the family. They were his only way home; that, he knew for certain.

"Will that be all, Monsieur Tracy?" Madeleine asked when he finally decided there was nothing else he could even consider wearing and shut the samples brochure. He wasn't sure how many he'd selected in the end, but there was a satisfied look on Other-Gordon's face, so he decided to call that torment to a close and nodded. Beaming what had to be a fake customer pleasing smile, she elegantly made her way to her feet, apparently not impeded by the ridiculousness of her dress. "Then if you'd like to follow me to the fitting rooms?"

What.

Fitting rooms?

Had some formal clothes snuck into his selection or something?

Other-Gordon nudged him seemingly accidentally as he stood up. Scott assumed that was another signal to just go along with it. Reluctantly, he found his way to his feet and followed Madeleine's swirl of fabric, raising an eyebrow at Other-Gordon when the other man followed. He got a grin in return.

At least _someone_ was having fun. Scott missed online shopping. He really hoped he wasn't going to have to go through this rigmarole for every item they were buying.

The fitting room really should be called a fitting _chamber_. It was at least as big as his bedroom at home, if not bigger, with plush seats and an area designed to be screened off, presumably for changing. Hopefully, it wouldn't be unusual for Other-Scott to use the curtains, because Scott was well aware how many scars he had from rescues, and while Other-Gordon had already briefly seen him shirtless he wasn't sure Madeleine would be expecting that many scars on a lazy billionaire's son.

"Please, make yourself comfortable while I collect the shirts," the woman said, gesturing to the chairs. "I will only be a few moments."

Then she was gone, and it was just the two of them in the room.

"You don't get your clothes fitted?" Other-Gordon asked, quietly, a beat after the door slid shut. Scott took that as an indication that no-one would hear him if he spoke, and leaned forwards with a sigh.

"I normally shop online," he grumbled. "Much less hassle."

"On… Line?" Other-Gordon parroted the word with clear confusion in his voice, and Scott rolled his eyes, half at the other man, half at the world in general. He should have known that would be another difference.

"Different technology," he dismissed. "You're not telling me I have to go through this for everything, are you?"

"You're getting a custom hoodie," Other-Gordon reminded him. "And designer jeans." Scott groaned. "But they won't measure you for underwear."

"You're never going to drop that, are you?" It was so old it was ancient at this point, but from the grin on Other-Gordon's face, that clearly didn't matter to him. Amber eyes flashed with amusement before turning serious.

"Don't forget the curtain," he warned. "Scott's scars aren't the same as yours."

"I wasn't planning to," Scott assured him. He probably shouldn't be surprised that Other-Gordon had gleaned that from when he'd borrowed Other-Scott's clothes, but hearing a comparison still startled him. "I-"

The door slid open and he cut himself off.

"Sorry for the wait, Monsieur Tracy," Madeleine greeted, an entire hangar of shirts trailing behind her on wheels. "According to your previous custom, these should be of an approximate fit."

Previous-? Other-Scott also shopped there? He supposed that made sense, even if he suddenly felt the pressure to absolutely not slip up, because Madeleine probably knew Other-Scott. That might have been useful to know earlier.

There was a lot he hadn't been told before this trip, and he was starting to wish they'd spent a little more time talking before leaving the island. The sensation of being out of his depth was starting to make itself known again from where it had settled in the relative familiarity of the flight over.

"All looks that way," Other-Gordon said suddenly, and Scott realised he hadn't given any sort of response. He really had to get his head in the game. "So, which one first, Scott?"

Resisting the instinct to take a deep breath in front of Madeleine, he stood and gestured at the blue one he'd picked out first from the catalogue. She took it off the hangar for him with a large smile.

"Take your time, Monsieur Tracy," she told him. "Come out when you're ready."

Scott barely made it to the curtained off area, drawing the thick material across and shutting himself away from the other two, before slumping against the wall and taking a deep breath. Now was _not_ a good time to get overwhelmed. If it was just Other-Gordon-

No, he'd done more than enough breaking down in front of other people already. He took another deep breath, looking down at the shirt gripped in his hands. His hands were trembling, the bandages over his knuckles suddenly stark against his skin. Visible. How was he supposed to explain away bandaged knuckles when he was pretending to be a lazy billionaire's son? Madeleine must have spotted it.

He tore his gaze away from the fabric and instead looked up at the ceiling, feeling the hat on his head dig in awkwardly as his head leant against the wall. More deep breaths, each shakier than the last, and somewhere in the back of his mind he realised he was headed for a full panic attack.

No. He couldn't do that. Not with Madeleine a single curtain away. Other-Scott had an image to maintain and he couldn't ruin it. He had to-

"Is everything alright, Monsieur Tracy?" Madeleine's voice was close, too close. She could probably hear his messed up breathing, knew something was wrong, knew he was falling apart the other side of the suddenly too-thin curtain, and-

"I'll check on him," Other-Gordon said. "Scott? I'm coming in."

He'd slipped around the curtain before Scott registered his words, amber eyes falling on him and widening for a split second. Then, like a switch had been flicked, his whole demeanour changed. It wasn't the jovial man that had been teasing for most of their time away from the island, but nor was it the sharp, military-like edge he'd held when he was being serious.

Instead it was calm, reassuring, and with slow, obvious movements the shorter man was taking the shirt from his hands, folding the fabric over one arm. "Sit," he instructed, quietly.

This was his International Rescue façade, Scott realised dimly as he sank down onto a stool he hadn't even registered was there. Other-Gordon crouched down in front of him, gently removing the shades he'd forgotten he was wearing and making firm eye contact.

"Breathe in," he said, voice still low. "Do you want me to count you?"

Scott took in another breath, inwardly wincing at how shaky it was, before exhaling again. Slowly, deliberately choreographing his movements, Other-Gordon rested a single hand on his knee. The touch was light, but grounding, and Scott's next attempt at a deep breath was markedly less shaky. Another, and then another, with Other-Gordon almost silently guiding him with words too quiet to be heard the other side of the curtain.

Once he had enough of a grip of himself that panic felt no longer imminent, he leant back, tension bleeding from his shoulders.

"Better?" Other-Gordon asked, and he nodded, opening his mouth to speak before a raised eyebrow reminded him otherwise. "Should we call it? You can come back-"

"No," Scott cut him off, clamping his mouth shut when he realised his mistake. He shook his head. If they left now, he'd have to come back later, and he wasn't sure he could do that. He certainly didn't want to have to face Not-Dad and tell him they didn't finish because he _panicked_. Better to get it over and done with now.

Other-Gordon eyed him dubiously for a moment before sighing and pulling himself to his feet. "If you say so," he said. "Let me give you a hand."

Give-? The blue fabric still draped over the aquanaut's arm caught his eye. Oh yes, he was supposed to have been putting it on. He didn't want help getting changed, and certainly didn't _need_ it, but there was a look in amber eyes that said quite plainly that Other-Gordon wasn't going anywhere.

Then again, if their roles were reversed, Scott wouldn't be going anywhere either.

Deciding the best route was to ignore him as best he could, Scott shrugged the waistcoat off, before plucking at the buttons on the shirt he was wearing. To his credit, Other-Gordon didn't try to actively help, only taking the clothes once he'd removed them and holding out the blue shirt for him to take.

"Monsieurs?" Madeleine called just as he was fastening the last button. "Is there a problem?"

Other-Gordon pressed the sunglasses into his hands and readjusted the hat on his head before slipping back outside.

"Nothing to be worried about," he assured her. "Whatever he's caught that's gone and taken his voice gives him dizzy moments, too. Fella just had a spell, but it's passed now."

So now he was ill instead of just having lost his voice? Scott wanted to be amused, but in reality he just felt thankful that Other-Gordon was quick at thinking on his feet.

"Oh, I understand," she said. Scott hurried to put the sunglasses back on and took one last deep breath before pushing the curtain back. "Monsieur Tracy, we can hold the items for you if you'd rather come back at a later date?"

Remembering in time not to talk, Scott waved her off with a small grin. It was forced; smiling wasn't something he felt like doing but the last thing he wanted was to have to come _back_.

"He'll be fine," Other-Gordon assured her. "This won't take long, will it?"

"Oh, not at all," Madeleine hurried to promise, and Scott's grin felt just a little less forced at that. "If you would stand here…" She gestured to a small step and Scott obeyed, watching as she bustled around him with pins, tugging at the fabric until it lay flat across his shoulders and hung just right. Compared to some fittings he'd had, it certainly didn't feel like it took too long; after what had to have been only a few minutes, she was nodding her approval and handing him the next shirt to put on.

Other-Gordon followed him behind the curtain this time, not giving him the opportunity to refuse the company. Scott got the feeling he wouldn't be letting him out of his sight again until they were back on the island, but where before he might have bristled at the lack of privacy, now he found himself reassured by the other man's presence. If nothing else, it helped keep his mind on the task at hand as he peeled the pin-infested shirt away from his body gingerly and accepted the new one while Other-Gordon hung the first on a hangar.

The rest of the fitting went in much the same fashion, Madeleine working quickly but efficiently and Other-Gordon shadowing him in a way that should have been bothersome but was somehow comforting, and before long all of the shirts – eleven, apparently – were stuck through with pins and back on the rail.

"Is there anything else you would like to order, Monsieur Tracy?" the woman asked once Scott was once again dressed in Other-Scott's borrowed clothes. She was clearly addressing him, but her eyes were on Other-Gordon, much to Scott's relief. While he knew what he wanted, he didn't know _where_ he could get them. For that, he was reliant on the other man.

"Not today," Other-Gordon answered. "When will they be ready to collect?"

"For you, we will have them done by Tuesday," she replied. Scott realised he had no idea what the day was.

"Perfect," Other-Gordon grinned, before fishing out a card from his pocket and handing it to her. She beamed and scurried off, presumably to take the payment.

Scott had absolutely no idea how much that had just come to.

Whatever the damage was, Other-Gordon seemed entirely fine with it, keeping his grin on his face as she returned with the card and a paper receipt, so Scott assumed it was within expectations.

Other-Gordon and Madeleine finalised arrangements for the shirts to be collected on Tuesday, leaving Scott with the sinking feeling he'd likely be stuck borrowing Other-Scott's clothes for however many days away that was, before bidding farewell. Following suit, Scott offered his own nod of thanks and farewell before finding himself being subtly guided back out of the shop and towards the car by the ginger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Including this one, I've now got another five chapters written so we'll be doing weekly updates again at least for the month of February. For those that haven't been subjected to my chatting about it in discord or DMs, I write this particular fic in chunks that could almost be called arcs, before chopping it up into chapters, hence the sudden backlog. This section was only supposed to fill a single chapter, not be an entire arc, but the boys disagreed with me on that so here we are.
> 
> Therefore, we have more playing around with the differences between the universes - particularly fashion, the TOS ideas of which are loosely based on the 1960s - and a couple of familiar namedrops. I also know basically zero about Auckland, New Zealand, or correct communications between planes and airports, so sorry if there's any inconsistencies there. Let's just call it future advancements and an alternative universe!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No full panic attacks in this chapter, but there are a couple of occasions where he starts spiralling before something stops him, so here’s a vague warning for that, I guess?

Other-Gordon didn't start talking until the engine was running.

"You still okay to keep going?"

"I'm fine." It came out sharper than it was supposed to, and he winced.

"If that's what you say." Other-Gordon sounded dubious, but didn't press the matter, to Scott's relief. "Can't say I blame you. This is crazy enough for me; I can't imagine how bad it is for you."

"Don't tell them." Other-Scott had already caught him on the edge of an outburst once, and they'd all seen him explode in the hangar, but Scott _needed_ to seem at least somewhat in control.

Especially in front of Not-Dad.

Amber eyes analysed him for a moment. "The fellas won't think less of you for it, Scott." The words hung in the air, Scott not bothering to respond despite Other-Gordon giving him the opportunity, and the ginger sighed. "Scott should know, in case something gets out about it. Madeleine's discreet enough, but…"

Scott swallowed, but saw the sense in that.

"Besides, I fully intend on sending him out to collect all the clothes, so he'll find out anyway." There was a grin on Other-Gordon's face that Scott subconsciously labelled _trouble_. He'd seen it enough on his own Gordon's face to know that Other-Scott was in for a prank or two. "You can't talk in public and it'd look mighty odd for the rest of us to be picking them up."

That definitely made sense.

"So where to next?" he asked, deciding to change the subject rather than let that one linger. Other-Gordon rolled his eyes.

"We might as well get your workman's clothes out of the way," he said. "Luckily for you, I do know somewhere we can get those."

He put his foot down and the car started moving, rolling out of the parking lot and onto the main streets again.

"Say," he continued. "What was with the poke?"

It took Scott a moment to remember what he was referring to, the fiasco of the fitting rooms having almost pushed it from his mind.

"To get your attention," he said. "Don't you guys do that?"

"The fellas do," Other-Gordon admitted. "But not to me." The words were laced with an undercurrent of bitterness, reminding Scott of their discussions about the rescues he was kept off of. "They tap me on the arm." Scott frowned.

"They think you're _that_ fragile?"

The man shrugged. "Father does." There was a heavy pause. "It's strange. It's not as though you don't know about the crash, but you don't treat me any different to the other fellas."

Scott kept his eyes on the road in front of them. "From what I can tell, you're just as fit as my Gordon," he said. "He'd make my life hell if I treated him like he was broken. Well, I did, at first," he admitted. "When he was in hospital, and then through the physio afterwards. I… I was terrified something would go wrong." He'd never told anyone that before, but Other-Gordon… Something told him Other-Gordon needed to hear it. "But he wasn't having any of it." A fond grin crept onto his face uninvited, but he didn't try and force it away. "Gordon's tough, stronger than the rest of us put together, probably. I won't lie, it took me a while, but I trust him to know his limits. If he's having a bad day, if he can't go out, he tells me. Otherwise…" he shrugged. "He can handle it."

Other-Gordon's hands were tight on the wheel.

"I've only known you a few hours," he continued. "So maybe I'm wrong, but you seem just as strong. I figure if something's too much, you'll say."

"Well, I do know my own limits," the ginger agreed. "You know, I'd almost forgotten what a jab in the ribs felt like." Scott glanced across to see his lips pulled into a grin. "Who knows, maybe the fellas could learn a thing or two while you're here."

Scott laughed, unsure if the unspoken message was simply permission or a plea, but hearing it anyway. "Maybe."

Silence lingered between them for a moment, scoring a line under that enlightening conversation. Scott was glad for it – in many respects, _most_ respects, Other-Gordon was still a stranger. Telling him things he'd never even told his own family, even if he was fairly certain Gordon suspected more than he let on, felt decidedly weird. He _didn't_ regret it, though, because even if Other-Gordon was basically a stranger, he was also _Gordon_.

Trying to wrap his head around that idea was definitely a challenge.

The fact that Scott had got the feeling he'd needed to hear it made him wonder exactly what Other-Gordon's relationship with his family was. _Father does_ , he'd said. No mention of his brothers. Just how much did Not-Dad rule the roost?

"We're nearly there," Other-Gordon said, interrupting his chain of thought. "Custom is going to be tricky without you talking, so give me the run-down now. Blue?"

"Are you guessing that based on the last shop or on what your Scott likes?" Scott asked.

"Both. Am I right?" He was still gathering information. Then again, Scott was, too.

"You're right," he confirmed. "Something easy to move in, too."

Other-Gordon let out a chuckle as he pulled into a parking lot. Scott missed the name of the place. "The fellas are gonna have something to say when they see it," he mused. Scott raised an eyebrow at him; he hadn't forgotten the ginger's own reaction to the idea. "Well, we should be able to get the jeans and hoodie here."

"Sounds good." Scott was already impatient for the trip to be over. It had nothing to do with Other-Gordon – his company was about as good as he could have expected to get – and everything to do with the ill-timed realisation of his situation. He watched Other-Gordon get out of the car, focusing on the lever on how it operated, before mimicking the movement on the lever his side. Other-Gordon looked amused when he finished his walk around the car to see him extracting himself.

"I should have figured you wouldn't need help a second time," he commented. "But remember, you lost a bet and don't want to be here. Try not to look too enthusiastic."

"Decided on the bet, yet?" Scott asked him, and Other-Gordon sent him a look. From the gleam in his eye, he knew _exactly_ what bet had supposedly been lost, and it was not going to be something either he or Other-Scott was happy about. That look was dangerous on Gordon, and it was no doubt equally so on the ginger in front of him. "Going to _tell_ me?"

The grin said no, he wasn't. Scott sighed.

"If we're going to hit the paparazzi, it'll be here," Other-Gordon told him instead. "Remember, head down, mouth shut, let me do all the talking."

Scott nodded, remembering Other-Scott saying something similar back on the island. _Gordon can handle the paparazzi_.

"And Scott," the aquanaut continued, his voice quieter. Calmer, reminiscent of the fitting rooms at _Lemaires'_. "If you need to get out, tap me four times." It was Scott's turn to give the younger man a look; after the almost disaster with the shirts, a signal was a good idea, but knowing that Other-Gordon thought they needed to establish one implied that he wasn't hiding his unease as well as he was hoping.

"Four for Four?" At least it was easy to remember, on the chance he _would_ need it. He sincerely hoped not.

"Four for Four," Other-Gordon confirmed, a small grin on his face, before that grin transformed back into the amused _cat got the cream_ of a younger brother who'd got one over on an older brother and was entirely too satisfied about it.

In a way, Scott supposed he had. It didn't make him any happier about it, and the wary looks he was sending the younger man weren't entirely for show as Other-Gordon confidently led the way to the front door of the shop and strode in as though he owned it. Scott was left with no choice but to trail behind him and try to ignore the gawks of what looked like the entire shop.

The stunned silence appeared to have blanketed over everyone, all eyes on the two Tracys making their way to the nearest salesperson, and it was several long seconds before anyone else in the shop moved. Hissed words accompanied the hubbub as life slowly trickled back into the shop. Scott was certain he heard _Tracys_ muttered in an astonished undertone.

This really wasn't their usual shop, it appeared. That was a pain, because as Scott looked around, he could see that the clothes here looked the most like the clothes he _liked_. Polos and jeans lined the shelves, and Scott immediately flagged multiple that he'd willingly wear.

Not being allowed to talk was suddenly a real pain.

"Mr Tracy and Mr Tracy, what an unexpected pleasure!" The salesman Other-Gordon had beelined for was doing little to cover his surprise, which worked in Scott's favour as the title put him on edge, but Other-Gordon just flashed him a grin.

"Mr Tracy would be our father. Call me Gordon, and this is Scott," he corrected, much to Scott's relief. He'd never got used to being called Mr Tracy.

"As you wish, Gordon, Scott," the man – his name tag said George – adjusted. He still looked a little star struck. "What would bring the illustrious Tracys to our shop?"

Gordon's grin widened, if that was even possible. "This fella thought it'd be smart to bet I couldn't beat the whole family in billiards," he announced, loud enough that the whole shop no doubt heard it. Scott sent him a glare – he was better than Gordon at the game, and he suspected that held true in this universe as well. Other-Gordon wouldn't be so gleeful otherwise. "The loser got a wardrobe makeover of the winner's choice." He shrugged. "I won, so Scott here needs some new clothes, if you could help with that?"

"But of course," George scrambled to say. "What would you be after?"

"Well, Scott's wardrobe is lacking in jeans, for the first." He made it sound natural, not quite alienating the people shopping there while making it perfectly clear that Tracys didn't normally wear them. "And I think one or two of your polos would be just the thing."

Scott started – he'd never _said_ polos. Other-Gordon must have caught him looking at them.

"Gee, no need to look quite so horrified, Scott," the ginger commented. "George here might think you don't want them!" He turned back to the man, who still looked rather out of his depth. "Poor fella lost his voice last night, so he can't make his own comments."

Scott rolled his eyes, and the ginger _beamed_.

"Luckily for him, I know _exactly_ what he needs!"

"Right, of course," the unfortunate George stammered. "If you'd like to follow me, then… sirs?"

"Lead the way," Other-Gordon invited, and they were led into something that looked a lot like it was normally an office, and not open to the general public. It was a far cry from the lavish customer furnishings of the last place.

"What would you like to look at first?" George clearly had no idea which Tracy he was supposed to be addressing, from the way his eyes kept flicking between them. Scott decided to have a little pity on the man and leaned backwards, effectively removing himself from the conversation. Other-Gordon helped by leaning forwards, drawing more attention to himself.

"I think the jeans would be a good place to start. Could you fetch some examples?" he prompted.

"Of course. What size would you like to try?"

Other-Gordon answered without hesitation, leaving Scott to assume he had his brother's sizes memorised, and George all but fled from the room, leaving the two of them alone. The door closed, and immediately Other-Gordon pressed up next to him.

"Which polos were you looking at?" he asked, quietly.

Scott told him, before raising a quizzical eyebrow. "You're not complaining?"

"Aw, polos aren't so bad. Scott has one or two himself, you know. Besides, I'd say it makes the story more convincing if we get a full outfit or two from here."

He had a point.

The door opened again, and George entered, one arm laden with jeans. Well, they all looked the right size at least. With any luck, they wouldn't _need_ fitting.

Scott could live in hope.

"Do any of these suit?" the sales assistant asked, hanging them up one after the other on a rack against the wall. Scott eyed them all, suspecting that Other-Gordon was more likely to be paying attention to his reactions than the clothes themselves.

None of them were exactly like he was used to, but he supposed that was to be expected, considering the overall differences between the universes – and he was _not_ going to think too hard on that one right now. Instead, they seemed to be geared more towards being form-fitting, not quite 'skinny', but definitely a lot tighter than the ones he wore at home. A couple of styles even seemed to be flared at the hem, a design that hadn't been in fashion since Grandma's time, and looked completely useless for doing any sort of exercise in without tripping over them.

He dismissed those immediately.

"You know, Scott, you've got to pick at least one," Other-Gordon drawled. "A forfeit's a forfeit, you know."

So Other-Gordon was going to let him take the silent lead on this one? That made it easier, if nothing else. Scott stepped forwards, sorting through them one at a time until he found a pair that looked like they wouldn't completely constrict his movement, and took it off of the rail.

"There is a changing room just through that door, if you'd like to try them on," George offered, gesturing at a door set into the far wall. Scott nodded, and started to head for it. Movement from Other-Gordon made him pause, and he glanced at the ginger to see a querying look on his face.

Right. Last time he'd been out of the other man's sight, he'd had a panic attack. Other-Gordon had good reason to be cautious, but Scott didn't feel any warning signs of an impending one this time, so he shot him a reassuring grin before opening the door and walking through.

The door clicked shut behind him, and Scott waited a split second to make sure he didn't suddenly descend into panic – not that he planned on calling Other-Gordon if he did; once was more than enough – before hurrying to get changed. The jeans were infinitely more comfortable than Other-Scott's slacks, but that was to be expected. Scott wasn't particularly fond of slacks.

They also fit pretty much perfectly. No ankles showing, but also not falling to the floor and getting caught underfoot. Other-Gordon also clearly _did_ know his brother's waist size, because it wasn't too tight or falling down. The only problem was that they were a little tighter, particularly around the thighs, than he was used to, but that looked to just be a universal difference he'd just have to get used to.

Or hopefully not, because he wanted to go home sooner rather than later. His family must have discovered his disappearance by now and-

He cut that train of thought right there. There was going to be _no_ more breakdowns in changing rooms, so he busied himself with making one last assessment of the jeans before pushing the door back open.

Other-Gordon was looking straight at the door, George nowhere in sight, and Scott knew he didn't imagine the flash of relief on his face before amber eyes flicked down to the jeans.

"George went to start picking up polos," he explained. "Everything alright?"

That was an obviously double-layered question, and Scott answered both with a single nod.

"Fabulous," Other-Gordon grinned. "You'll need more than one pair, though. Different colours of that one or different styles?"

Open-ended questions needed verbal answers; Scott glanced at the door leading to the rest of the store – still closed – before answering.

"Mostly colours," he said. "If there's another style that fits, I'll take that, but I think this is the closest I'll get. Not perfect, but…" He shrugged.

"Alright," Other-Gordon nodded. "The rack's still there, if you want to take another gander." Well, there was no harm in that, even if Scott was dubious about finding any more practical ones amongst the too-tight and flared-hem designs dominating the selection.

There wasn't. Maybe that was Scott also just wanting this trip to be over with, even if it meant speeding up his next no doubt probing conversation with one of the Other-Tracys, but he didn't like the look of any of the others. He said as much to Other-Gordon, who took on that calculating look that was quickly becoming familiar, and not just because he'd seen it on Gordon too many times to count. Another piece in the puzzle for the ginger. Scott wondered what sort of picture he was putting together.

He also didn't want to know.

"You'll need quite a few of that one, if that's the case," Other-Gordon reminded him. "We can get you more later, if we can convince Scott to pretend he likes the clothes after all, but I'd say you need five or six."

Scott nodded, but hoped they wouldn't _need_ to get more. He knew Other-John had said it could take years – a prediction that had something uncomfortable curling in his gut if he thought about it, because if time moved linearly in both universes then that was _years_ with his family not knowing what had happened to him, just like with Dad but _worse_ , and he couldn't do that to them. He _couldn't_. They'd hold it together because his little brothers were strong, but it would hurt them. It would hurt them so, so much.

"So, colours." Other-Gordon's voice cut through his thoughts, dragging him back to the room and the jeans and away from the thoughts running rampart through his head. From the look on the other man's face, he'd noticed that his mind had wandered. Scott still wasn't sure if he liked how easily Other-Gordon seemed to be able to read him, but he supposed that was better than another breakdown.

He really had to get a grip.

"We should ask how many shades of blue these chaps can offer," the aquanaut continued as the door opened. "I'd suppose there's quite the variety."

"We do have a variety of colours available," George assured them, now carrying a stack of polos in various shades and colours. Some of them made Scott's eyes water just to look at them. "Have you found anything?"

"I'd say what he's wearing looks jolly good," Other-Gordon said. "What shades of blue can you do on those?"

"Well, we have five shades available," the sales assistant said. "I would have to check how many are in stock in Mr- er, Scott's size."

"He'll have one of each," Other-Gordon said. "If they're not in stock, you can order them in, can't you?"

"Of course! It may take some time for them to arrive, but we can definitely arrange that."

Other-Gordon grinned. Scott swallowed back against threatening thoughts about _time_. "Fabulous! Now, how about those polos?"

At the full force of a Gordon who knew exactly what he wanted and how he was going to get it – Scott pitied George for that; Other-Gordon was proving to be as much of an occasional bulldozer as Gordon when it suited him and was definitely enjoying the lack of a restraining older brother stopping him – the man had little choice but to lay the offerings out for the pair of them to look at.

Scott instantly dismissed the ones that hurt his eyes to look at. Unlike the jeans, which despite being made of denim and therefore technically still jeans were cut in styles that were nothing like the ones he was used to, the polos looked a lot more familiar. He had no qualms about trimming the selection by the colours of the examples he was being shown, even if that was a shallow reason.

He still didn't want to be there. He wanted to be on the island – preferably _his_ Tracy Island, in _his_ universe, and not stuck here trying to find clothes for his inevitably long stay in a world where strangers wore his family's names, personalities, and even looks.

"This one?" Other-Gordon cut in again, appearing beside him and reaching for a blue one he hadn't pushed aside yet. Scott blinked and realised his hands had stilled on the rack. Sharp amber eyes were watching him carefully, one of the man's arms close enough to his hand that he'd brush it if he moved his fingers the right way.

Scott purposefully didn't touch, keeping an inch or so of air between them in a clear but silent message to Other-Gordon. He was not giving up on the trip. Instead he poked and prodded at the polo in question. It looked worth a try, so he unhooked the hanger from the rack and let the material fall over his arm.

There was a decidedly disapproving air from the man next to him, but Other-Gordon didn't say anything. Scott didn't acknowledge it either, dragging his mind back on task and brushing through the rest of the polos on the rack until he had a sizeable pile folded over his arm.

With no excuse, Other-Gordon couldn't justify following him into the changing room, but it was abundantly obvious that he wanted to. Scott just wanted this to be over with, so when the ginger grinned at him and proclaimed that he wanted to see _every single one_ , he glared at him.

Other-Gordon wasn't perturbed in the slightest, chivvying him towards the door and ignoring George as he stood redundantly by the dismissed polos. "For your favourite brother?" he wheedled, before a grin lit up his face. It didn't reach his eyes, but Scott could tell it was only a show for their audience anyway. "Remember, this _is_ a forfeit, Scott!"

_For my own peace of mind,_ that translated as. Reading the subtext behind the younger man's words was as natural as breathing to Scott, which he put down to the similarities between the two Gordons. He rolled his eyes in an attempt to persuade Other-Gordon that he was fine and not on the edge of another panic attack, before slipping back into the room and shutting the door in his face.

A little rude, and definitely coming off as ungrateful – he wasn't; he knew it came from care and if their positions were reversed he would absolutely be doing the same if he hadn't just overridden all protests and taken them back to the airport already – but Scott really didn't want to be hovered over.

The waistcoat and shirt were shrugged off, hat and sunglasses temporarily removed, before he yanked the first polo on with more aggression than the action really deserved. Scott grit his teeth. He really had to get himself back under control. Other-Gordon had good reason to be worried, and the fact that they were technically strangers was doing nothing to temper it. But then, what did he expect? He was still an operative of International Rescue.

Other-Gordon was also one of the few people in the universe that he was even vaguely comfortable around. Alienating him would do more harm than good.

With a sigh, he tugged the hat and sunglasses back on and opened the door to dutifully show the polo. It fit fine, he supposed. Not too baggy, but not restrictive, either. It was definitely better than any shirts he'd worn so far in the universe.

Unsurprisingly, Other-Gordon was more interested in his face than his clothes, clearly checking him over for signs of another spiral. Scott hoped he didn't look too terrible; whatever the other man saw, he didn't comment on.

"Well that looks pretty fine, wouldn't you say?" he said instead to George, who jumped at being suddenly addressed again and nodded vigorously.

"Very good, sir," he agreed. Scott shrugged a noncommittal agreement, remembering that he wasn't supposed to be enjoying this trip – he wasn't, but not because of the clothes – and retreated back to the changing room to try on the next.

In the end there were eight polos in the original selection, and six of them in the pile Other-Gordon was setting aside with the approved jeans. From the look on George's face, he hadn't been expecting quite so many purchases but also wasn't complaining at all. Scott wondered if sales assistants still got commissions on their sales in this universe.

"That's a fine collection." Other-Gordon looked positively gleeful, but Scott supposed that made some sense. Even if it was all a ruse, as far as the world was going to be concerned, he'd got one over on his eldest brother. In a way, he actually had, even if it had been with Other-Scott's begrudging blessing. "But I'd say there's still something missing, wouldn't you, Scott?"

Scott had started to wonder if Other-Gordon was going to try and force the shopping trip to a premature conclusion by skipping the hoodie, but to his relief it seemed as though that was still on the cards. Burying the relief behind a long history of catering to little brother whims, he just rolled his eyes and let his shoulders slump a little.

Other-Gordon _beamed_.

"What this needs," he told George with enough glee that Scott almost forgot he'd been dubious about the idea in the first place, "is a hoodie. Wouldn't you agree?" He wasn't looking at Scott, but rather a George who suddenly looked entirely too much like a deer in headlights.

"You- you'd like to view our hoodie collection?" he stammered, clearly believing that he'd misheard. "But…" The look he shot Scott spoke volumes, enforcing Other-Gordon's earlier proclamation that hoodies were workman's clothes and certainly nothing that someone of the Tracy's social standing would be seen dead in.

Other-Gordon's smile turned the slightest bit predatory. Scott suspected that was actually aimed at his poor brother's reputation than anyone in the room, but it didn't stop George blanching.

"He _did_ lose a bet."

"Yes, of course." Scott really hoped they were going to compensate this poor man for the mental stress he was being put through. "Would you like me to fetch some examples?"

"I was thinking something a little more unique for my brother," Other-Gordon corrected, and Scott recalled that Other-Scott had insisted on custom made. Personally, he'd have been happy with something off the shelf if it fit and was comfortable, but as far as compromises went, it could have been a lot worse. "I heard this shop offers custom tailoring?"

"We do, but I will have to consult with my manager about hoodies," George hedged. "If you gentlemen would excuse me…" When neither of them protested, he escaped the room. Scott winced.

"They'll agree," Other-Gordon said confidently. "Money talks in places like this."

"As long as we don't give the employees a heart attack first," Scott muttered. "George seems… stressed."

Other-Gordon sighed. "With any luck, the fella will calm down once his manager's in the picture. I don't like it any more than you do, Scott, but for the sake of appearances easing up on the guy isn't an option."

Cover story. Right.

"How about you?" the aquanaut asked suddenly. "Are you going to be okay for another fitting?"

"I'm fine," Scott assured him. It came out sounding almost believable. Almost. A judging ginger eyebrow rose.

"You're as stubborn as a mule and refuse to admit when you're anything less than A-One," Other-Gordon informed him. Scott got the feeling those were Other-Scott traits he was – admittedly correctly – associating with him. "You trust me to know my limits, so it would be a mighty help if you'd show me the same courtesy."

_You do realise we're on the same side?_ His words from Thunderbird One's hangar ran through Scott's head.

"Talk to me, Scott. You holding up?"

They had known each other barely a handful of hours. Scott was acutely aware that he trusted _International Rescue_ to do what they could to help him, but also that that same trust was not yet cemented between him and the individuals within the organisation. Other-Gordon was the closest he'd got, mostly through exposure but also because the ginger had respected the boundaries once they'd been felt out.

That trust was still a small, fragile thing. Scott could almost see the thread in front of him, barely a hair thick and easily broken. The wrong move would snap it, and then where would he be? Both sides needed that trust to maximise their chances of getting him home.

Not that Scott was going to be blindly handing it out – Other-Alan had shown nothing but distaste for him so far, and Not-Dad brought up too many conflicting thoughts and emotions for trust to be on the cards any time soon – but to Other-Gordon?

"I can handle it," he promised. "Honestly…" he trailed off, trying to find the words and push past his natural inclination to keep the truth buried where it wouldn't worry younger brothers, but that word was enough to get Other-Gordon's back straightening. "Honestly, stopping and having to come back later would be worse." He'd take panic attacks in changing rooms over going back with the shopping half finished and having to explain the failure, especially to Not-Dad.

More than anyone else, he knew that if he showed weakness in front of Not-Dad, something would break.

"Then it's a good thing the fellas don't need us back any time soon," Other-Gordon said matter-of-factly. A hand rested on his shoulder, the touch light but there. "We can take as many breaks as you need until we're done."

Scott felt like he'd just fallen off of a cliff, hoping he had a grapple pack left to catch himself with, only for Other-Gordon to grab his hand and haul him back up. It should be disconcerting that he'd been read so easily, even with the bare bones he'd managed to share, but the overwhelming feeling of relief washed away any lingering unease.

"Thanks," he managed.

"Thank _you_ ," Other-Gordon replied, a gentle look on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meant to update this last night but forgot, whoops. The shopping trip continues, so that means one thing: more Scott&TOS!Gordon. Hope you like this duo because there’s a lot of it to come :D


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the last chapter ended with some really lovely trust-building... so I decided that’s more than enough generosity from me for Scott and the panic attack warning is back! What, you didn’t think I was gonna let him off that lightly, did you?
> 
> Still shopping, still Scott&TOS!Gordon everywhere, and more hoodie shenanigans! You know, that hoodie’s given me a real headache (and is half the reason this shopping trip’s got so long; TOS why no hoodies? Scott wanting a hoodie was only supposed to be a throwaway line, not an entire plot point)...

Silence lingered between them, Scott focusing on the touch on his shoulder to keep himself grounded, before the younger man broke it again. "Say, George is taking a while."

"Taking a well-deserved break," Scott retorted, and Other-Gordon chuckled.

"I wouldn't blame the fella," he agreed.

There was a knock on the door and a new man entered, George immediately behind him.

"Mr Tracy," he greeted. "Mr Tracy. I am the manager of the store, Jeremy. My man tells me you'd like to order a custom hoodie?" The newly-introduced Jeremy was looking at Scott, presumably because he was the oldest and therefore the assumption was that he was in charge – or the one with the money – and he really hoped his discomfort at _Mr Tracy_ didn't show.

"That's right, Jeremy." Other-Gordon pounced, immediately drawing the attention towards him. "And there's no need for formality. Just call me Gordon, and he's just Scott." Jeremy, Scott was pleased to see, didn't appear to be anywhere near as overwhelmed as George. The other man was lingering back somewhat uncertainly by the pile of jeans and polos they'd already chosen, clearly content to let his manager deal with them.

"Very well," the manager said. "We are, of course, more than happy to oblige." He presented Other-Gordon with a stack of catalogues, which the ginger immediately started flicking through. Scott peered over his shoulder to see pages and pages of what apparently got classified as a hoodie in this universe.

So far, none of them looked at all appealing.

"If you'd like to select a basic style, we can then discuss the desired alterations and take your measurements," Jeremy continued. "Typically we should be able to complete it within seven working days."

"That sounds good to me," Other-Gordon shrugged. He glanced up at where Scott was still peering over his shoulder. "Should I let you pick?"

Scott assumed that was just to keep up the ruse, but he took the invitation to pluck the catalogues out of the other man's hands and flick through them. Knowing that it would be modified to specifications helped, but as he couldn't actually _say_ what he wanted, he wanted to find something as close as possible to work from as a base.

Other-Gordon struck up a conversation with Jeremy while he looked, but Scott didn't bother to listen in. Anything important, the ginger should recap for him when it became relevant.

Eventually, he found the section that focused on the top and the hood separately, and realised that all of the previous examples were a complete waste of his time when he could basically pick and choose from options, much in the same way they constructed Pods to best suit the rescue.

With that mindset, the whole task suddenly became much less intimidating. Scott perused the individual sections intently, occasionally jabbing at the page and flicking his finger up as though he was selecting something on a holoscreen, only to blink when the image didn't move.

Printed paper. Not a hologram.

Hopefully, Other-Gordon was keeping Jeremy distracted enough that his habitual slip-ups didn't catch any attention.

"Is everything alright, M- Scott?"

George. He'd forgotten about George.

The man had come up next to him while he was looking at the options, and was eyeing him with something that looked a little confused and – oh hell, was that _pity_? What had he done to get _that_?

He opened his mouth, remembered he wasn't supposed to talk, and shut it again before giving a firm nod. No, things were not _alright_ , but he wasn't about to admit that to anyone, let alone a sales assistant he knew nothing about.

George retreated, but hesitantly enough that Scott knew he wasn't convinced. Dammit.

Other-Gordon hadn't come to his rescue this time, still talking with Jeremy, so Scott shoved the incident away and tried to focus on the catalogues in front of him again. It didn't work; he could feel George watching him, and the same emotions he'd experienced at _Lemaires'_ started to bubble up.

That was _not_ good. George was watching him, George was suspicious that something was wrong, the bandages around his knuckles felt all too visible, and Scott could feel the walls around their minor deception crumbling away.

He needed George to _stop watching_. He needed Other-Gordon to step in and catch his attention, get the spotlight off of him so he could ground himself again. He needed to pull himself together, and he couldn't do that while George was _watching_.

He turned a page, more to do something than because he was paying any attention to what was on it, and it rustled. His hand was shaking. The instinct to turn it into a fist was strong, but there was paper in his hand and that would make a noise and then everyone would _know_ something was wrong.

He couldn't retreat into the changing room with clothes to try on because there were none left. He couldn't leave the room without drawing attention to himself. He couldn't even catch Other-Gordon's attention without George noticing _that_.

Other-Gordon was out of arm's reach.

_Four for Four_.

Normally, Scott would never even consider it. Normally, Scott would be somewhere where everyone knew exactly who he was and he could _talk_ and walk out of the room without consequence. Normally, it wasn't someone else's reputation on the line.

It was that last one that tipped it. Scott didn't care about his own reputation, but it was Other-Scott who would take the hit and Scott could never, ever, let someone else take a hit that should be his.

But…

He didn't need to get out, he just needed George distracted.

_Four for Four_.

Other-Gordon was out of arm's reach. He couldn't poke him once and be done with it.

George was still _watching_. His chest felt like someone had constricted it with a rubber band. Breathing normally was becoming more and more of a battle.

He scuffed his foot against the floor.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

He couldn't do the fourth. Fourth meant _get me out of here_ and it was less _him_ that needed to leave and more _George_ that needed to _stop watching_.

Three wasn't an arranged signal. Would Other-Gordon notice it? Would he understand it?

Scott glanced at the ginger and saw that he was still talking to Jeremy. No change.

Dammit. He turned another page, not seeing what was on it. The rustling was louder.

"-won't take up your valuable time," Other-Gordon was saying. "Once we've decided on the pattern, we'll call for you."

"Well, if you're sure," Jeremy replied. "Please, don't hesitate to reach out."

"As soon as we've decided," Other-Gordon repeated.

"Very well." Scott was too busy trying to keep his breathing even to pay much attention to what Jeremy was saying, but when _George_ was uttered, he forced himself to listen. "-leave Gordon and Scott while they decide. If you could help me gather a collection of material samples in the meantime-"

He stopped listening again as the invisible rubber band around his chest squeezed tighter. Beneath his fingers, he could feel paper crumpling, and then there were hands coaxing him into letting go.

"Scott, can you hear me?" Warm hands grasped his and he nodded. Keeping his breathing even was all but impossible now, lungs stuttering and chest heaving. "Okay, do you think you can match my breathing?" One of his hands was pressed against a shirt, only it was rising and falling in an exaggerated fashion. Other-Gordon's chest, his brain supplied. "In…" The chest rose slowly and steadily. "And out…"

Scott tried, latching onto the steady count and the steady rise and fall against his hand, but then he was hiccupping and any attempts to keep control over his breathing were destroyed by the interruptions.

Other-Gordon didn't let go. "Tell me five things you can see," he said instead.

He was in full calm rescuer mode again. Scott recognised that, just like he recognised the task. Normally, he was on the other end, coaxing someone else through the routine. Normally-

"Scott! Five things."

Blinking, he dragged the world back into focus. Other-Gordon was right in front of him, exuding calmness even though he was clearly worried as well.

"You," he gasped, forcing the word out past a hiccup.

Other-Gordon rewarded him with a reassuring smile. "What else?"

What else? They were in a room, there was a- "Door." It was shut. Nearby was a pile of- "Clothes." The ones they'd already chosen. Mostly blue. Blue was the best colour.

"That's three," Other-Gordon counted. "Two more, Scott."

Two more. Right. He moved his head around to the side. "Rack." The rejected clothes were still hanging on it, where it was pressed up against the wall. "Wall." The wallpaper looked like someone had taken one of John's shirts and decided it made good décor. It really didn't.

"Okay," Other-Gordon said, still calm. "That's good. Four things you can feel."

He was still holding his hands. They were warm.

Scott squeezed one lightly. "Hand," he listed. Beneath his other hand, where Other-Gordon's chest was still rising and falling like clockwork, he could feel the silk of the other man's clothes. "Shirt. Bandages." They were still tight across his knuckles, linen brushing against his skin in a way he was suddenly hyper aware of.

Another stream of hiccups interrupted him, his diaphragm lunging awkwardly inside his chest. Other-Gordon held him steady, not moving but keeping his presence there.

"One more," he coaxed after they passed, and Scott took a deep breath in.

Something else he could feel – hand, shirt, bandages. Around his wrist there was a weight, barely there but different. "Watch." Other-Scott's analogue watch. He still hadn't returned it. Was he supposed to?

"You're doing great," Other-Gordon assured him. "Three things you can hear."

"You." Gordon was always making noise and Other-Gordon was doing the same. If he wasn't talking, it was the steady in and out of his breath. It was the noise that promised he wasn't alone. "Me." He could hear his own breathing, stuttered and slightly wheezy. His heartbeat, sounding out a rhythm that was starting to slow down.

Other than them, the room was silent. Jeremy and George were gone, a fact that he only just registered, leaving just him and Other-Gordon. Scott closed his eyes, trying to find another sound.

Their watches were perfectly synchronised, the _tick, tick, tick,_ of the seconds emitting from both their wrists. Scott wasn't used to watches that made noises – at least, not the regular clockwork ticks of seconds passing by – and in the silence they seemed loud. "Watches," he said, before Other-Gordon could prompt him again.

He opened his eyes again to see Other-Gordon wearing something that looked a lot more like a smile than earlier. Absently, he noticed that his chest wasn't being compressed any more.

"Two things you can smell."

Focusing was easier now. This close, and paying attention to it, Other-Gordon's aftershave was easily detectable. The room itself smelt of some sort of furniture polish, no doubt coming from the desk he now remembered was behind him. He offered both to the waiting Other-Gordon, and got a proper smile from him.

"Okay, one thing you can taste."

It had been hours since he'd eaten anything, the last thing being that apple pie Other-Scott had also descended upon. Unfortunately, the residual taste had long gone, leaving him with nothing but the usual bland saliva inside his mouth and the taste of indoor, slightly-furniture-polish tainted, air.

Other-Gordon chuckled when he mentioned that.

"We'll find some food before the return flight," he promised, grin just one side of cheeky, before the more serious expression settled back on his face. "Are you good to talk?"

Ideally, Scott wanted to pretend that hadn't happened and carry on with the shopping, but he knew better than to think Other-Gordon was going to willingly drop the subject. His hand was still pressing against the other man's chest, and he pulled it back, although he didn't let go of the warm hand.

"As good as I'll get," he admitted begrudgingly, and Other-Gordon nodded.

"I'll keep it brief," he promised. "Why three times?"

He had noticed. Noticed and acted upon it, despite it not being an agreed signal.

"I didn't need to get out," he said. Amber eyes narrowed at him, Other-Gordon's disagreement palatable. "I needed _them_ out."

"What was the difference?"

What was the difference? Scott frowned. At the time it had been so clear, but the other side of the panic attack, putting his finger on precisely what he'd wanted was harder.

"If we left, coming back would be odd," he settled on.

"Okay," Other-Gordon accepted, although Scott didn't think he was entirely happy with the answer. "You still want to keep shopping?"

"I'm not quitting," Scott said firmly. There was the hint of an eyeroll from the younger man.

"Well, no-one's ever accused Scott Tracy of being a quitter," he commented, clearly amused, before the seriousness returned. "When we get back to the car, we're creating a full set of signals," he promised. "And I want you to tell me if you're seeing a pattern."

Scott saw the sense in both of those, even if needing to do it rankled. It was to make sure he didn't inadvertently throw Other-Scott under the paparazzi bus, he reminded himself, well aware that Other-Gordon's motivation was _not_ that but refusing to face that one. As long as he focused on it being for Other-Scott's benefit, he could do it.

Begrudgingly, he nodded.

That seemed to satisfy Other-Gordon enough, as he stepped back, out of his personal space, and let go of Scott's hand. Scott let him. "Did you see anything you liked in the catalogue?" he asked, retrieving it from wherever he'd put it earlier. One of the pages was crumpled.

"I was getting there," Scott admitted, plucking it from his hands and trying to ignore the crumpled page as he quickly flicked back to the customisation section at the back. "This," he pointed out, finding the right page. "With this, this and this."

His fingers automatically swiped again, and he grit his teeth. With only Other-Gordon as witness it didn't invite the panic to surge back up, but he could feel calculating eyes on them. There was no comment, though.

Instead, the catalogue was whisked from his hands and the other man repeated his selection back at him. Clearly, he'd been read _again_ , but if it kept their secret then he'd accept it. Other-Gordon was simply trying to help, and if he was using his knowledge of his own brother to help him read Scott, then that was fair enough. He was doing the same, after all.

"You looking for more blue, or some variety this time?" Other-Gordon asked. "The fellas'll be back with fabric and colour samples in a minute."

"Probably," Scott shrugged. There was always a chance he'd see something else he'd like better, but blue made for a safe default.

Oher-Gordon made an amused noise. "You ready to face them again?"

"I'll be fine," spilled out of his mouth automatically, and a ginger eyebrow raised at him. He sighed. "I _should_ be fine," he corrected. The eyebrow stayed raised. "Can we just get this over with, please?"

"Four for Four," the younger man reminded him in an obvious concession, before strolling over to the door and opening it. "Ah, Jeremy! Good timing; Scott finally settled on something."

Scott had a sudden fear that the manager had been standing outside the door long enough to hear what they'd been saying, but squashed it ruthlessly. Other-Gordon would handle it if he thought it was a problem.

Jeremy entered as Other-Gordon stepped aside for him, George appearing behind him. Both men were carrying fabrics with different patterns and colours.

"Wonderful!" the manager beamed. "Here are the fabrics we have available in stock at the moment. If none of these suit, then we do have a wider selection, but we will need to contact the suppliers for a shipment." The two men settled their armfuls onto the table, and without prompting Scott headed over to start sorting through them. "Would you like assistance?"

Scott waved both men off as they started to hover, no doubt intending on pitching their most expensive options, although that was less of a concern than the fear one of them – particularly George – was looking at _him_ too closely.

Other-Gordon swept them both up in conversation about the selection he'd chosen, pages of the catalogue turning as he gestured, and Scott tuned it out as he rummaged through the fabrics in front of him. Judging by feel, he discarded all the ones that weren't cotton or similarly soft – hoodies were for _comfort_ , and that was what he was going to prioritise – before critically eyeing the patterns on the remaining ones.

There were several different shades of blue, which he automatically headed for, before pausing. At the bottom of the pile, in amongst a cluster of loudly patterned monstrosities better suited for Gordon's tastes, was a flash of red. Pulling it out to look at, he swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat.

Red and black chequers greeted him as he shook it out. It wasn't an identical pattern to Virgil's favourite flannel shirt, but it was close enough to have his fingers trembling as he held it up.

The pile of blue, varying shades and patterns and his automatic go-to, was instantly forgotten. He didn't normally wear those colours, unless he was borrowing Virgil's flannels for some reason, but here, in another universe, it felt a little bit like home.

The lump in his throat felt tighter, and he was glad no-one expected him to say anything because right then he wasn't sure he _could_. Still, he gave himself a moment, because Other-Gordon was still talking, still _distracting_ , and he refused to have another breakdown. Especially over this.

He didn't even bother looking at the other patterns. There was nothing else there, not even any of the blue ones, that could possibly change his mind.

After half a minute or so, he turned around to face the other three men in the room, red and black chequered fabric in his hands.

Other-Gordon's eyes widened in surprise, and Scott felt a little smug that he wasn't _completely_ predictable.

"A fine choice!" Jeremy beamed, and Scott got the suspicion he'd picked one of the pricier patterns. "Will that be all?" The question was, mercifully, directed at Other-Gordon, who had slipped back into his analytical expression and was clearly revising some earlier conclusions.

"That's all, Jeremy," he confirmed. As well as it being the conclusion of everything on the list, Scott was fairly sure that despite their earlier conversation and his own claims that he'd be fine, Other-Gordon thought they needed to leave the shop sooner rather than later.

"In that case, I'll leave you with George to take the measurements while I calculate the bill," the manager declared, and Other-Gordon nodded.

"That sounds excellent," he agreed. "Thank you for your help, Jeremy."

"It was no problem at all," the manager replied. "Thank you for your custom."

Something about the way he said it put Scott on edge, but Other-Gordon continued to grin delightedly until the man left. Without the barrier of his manager, George immediately looked a little flustered again.

"If you'd like to follow me, M- Scott," he invited, pulling a measuring tape out of a pocket as he headed for another door. Ah yes, the _fitting_ bit. Why couldn't Other-Scott have agreed to swiping one off the shelf? Still, he reluctantly followed, Other-Gordon keeping pace by his side, entering a small room with a stool in the centre and mirrors surrounding it. While nowhere near as lavish as _Lemaires'_ , it was still clearly a fitting room.

He barely waited for George's instruction before stepping up onto the stool, hoping this wasn't going to take _too_ long.

It didn't, although it was still longer than Madeleine's quick and nimble fingers. Scott felt like a puppet on a string as he was asked to turn, raise his arms, lower his arms, and the rest of the seemingly-ridiculous contortions required for accurate measurements. The neckline measurements were _not_ fun – Scott was not a fan of things wrapping around his neck, even if it was a measuring tape wielded by a tailor – but he held still and hoped neither of the other men in the room noticed.

Other-Gordon almost certainly did. Those amber eyes hadn't left him the entire time since Jeremy had left.

George finally stepped back and let him off the stool, coiling the tape measure back up and making one last scrawl on the clipboard he'd been using to record.

"Thanks, George," Other-Gordon said before he could say a word. "That'll be everything. How about you go on ahead and give those numbers to Jeremy?"

His tone was friendly enough, but George jumped and nodded before all but fleeing from the room. It was Scott's turn to raise an eyebrow. The dismissal of their sales assistant might as well have screamed that Other-Gordon wanted a private word.

"If Jeremy hasn't called the paparazzi I'll eat my hat," the ginger said without preamble. "If his shop gets in the papers with our name attached, he'll get good business."

So that was what the manager had meant earlier. Scott supposed he should have seen it coming, although with social media back home it was usually a case of someone snapping a single photo and loading it online for everyone to see, rather than _calling the press_.

"The Tracy name makes good advertising," he commented dryly.

"That it does," Other-Gordon agreed. "Remember, no talking. Don't let the sunglasses or hat fall off, because Scott _will_ murder me if the press suggests he's going grey, and keep your hand in your pocket."

His hand? Scott glanced down and saw the bandages wrapped around his knuckles. He stuffed it in a pocket. "They'd have a field day with that, wouldn't they?" he observed grimly. Other-Gordon shrugged in agreement.

"Most likely." Amber eyes looked at him seriously. "And remember, four for Four. We'll have to give them something, but we're absolutely _not_ giving them a panic attack to gossip over. If you need out, _tell me_."

Scott nodded. He knew what paparazzi were like, and he was mostly certain he'd be fine, but he was well aware it wasn't _his_ reputation on the line. For Other-Scott, he could ask for help.

"Any questions?" Other-Gordon asked, and Scott shook his head.

"I know paparazzi," he assured him. "They might not be identical here, but I'll be surprised if it's too different."

Other-Gordon grinned. "In that case, let's get this over with."

There was no paparazzi in the main shop, it transpired as they left the side room to re-enter the shop floor, but Scott could hear a crowd of people outside. He did his best to ignore them as Other-Gordon chatted with Jeremy, making the payments while side-stepping any promises to promote the shop and arranging for collection of the items that weren't ready to be taken away.

Scott was delighted that at least some packages – tied up in brown paper and string before being deposited in bags emblazoned with what had to be the shop's name – were ready to go; it meant he'd have _something_ that wasn't Other-Scott's to change into as soon as they got back to the island.

"Do you need someone to carry the bags for you?" Jeremy was asking, and Scott rolled his eyes, taking advantage of the dark shades Other-Scott had insisted upon. His motives couldn't be more transparent if he tried, with the paparazzi buzzing around outside. Still, Other-Scott had told him to leave the paparazzi nonsense to Other-Gordon, so he kept his body language neutral and waited for the other man to respond.

"Thanks for the offer, but Scott and I can manage just fine," Other-Gordon grinned. "I'd say we've taken up quite enough of your time today, Jeremy."

"It really wouldn't be a bother," the manager insisted, but Other-Gordon remained firm, handing some of the bags to Scott – specifically his right hand, in a less than subtle reminder that his bandaged left was to stay hidden in his pocket – and taking the others himself.

"Thanks for all your help," Other-Gordon said. "Scott'll be back to collect the other items later, as we agreed."

Scott wondered what Other-Scott was going to have to say about being forced to pick up the hoodie he'd clearly been reluctant about. Then again, _he'd_ been the one to insist on the custom, so maybe he was already aware Other-Gordon was going to pull that. He wondered what the contingency plan was if Other-Scott was caught up in a rescue, as their continued secrecy in this universe meant he couldn't turn up in Thunderbird One and IR uniform.

Other-Gordon turned and started walking towards the door, dismissing Jeremy's continued attempts to help them carry the bags – or rather, to get involved with the paparazzi. Scott followed him, and hoped this wasn't going to turn into a total disaster.

Cameras flashed the moment the door opened, and Scott found himself very thankful for the shades as they stopped him from being blinded.

The different technologies were immediately obvious; instead of small, sleek cameras, there were big ones with large mirrors and bulbs for maximum subject-blinding. Scott never thought he'd miss the _paparazzi_ , of all things, but he found he vastly preferred not being blinded while they took his photograph.

The noise, however, was the same. Voice after voice clamouring for answers, parroting questions at the speed of light as microphones were shoved in his face. Immediately ahead of him, Other-Gordon had stopped, and sensing which brother was willing to talk, the reporters flocked straight to the aquanaut.

"Gordon Tracy!" they were all saying, talking over each other. Scott made out snatches of words like "clothes" and "shopping" and "unusual", but focused on doing his best to not be the centre of attention – which was much harder than he thought it would be. Then again, he was used to being the one the rest of his brothers hid behind, rather than being the one doing the hiding.

He kept his gaze firmly focused on the ginger hair in front of him, and tried to ignore any stray microphones or occasional calls of his own name as he was noticed. The problem with paparazzi was that they didn't know how to give up, and the fact that he wasn't even saying 'no comment' was drawing more and more of them like flies.

Other-Gordon was talking to the majority that had flooded him with microphones and notebooks, and Scott was fairly sure he heard the word _bet_ at least once. Unfortunately, that appeared to get more of them swarming over to him.

"What do you think of your brother's choice of forfeit?"

"Do you think these might be a permanent addition to your wardrobe?"

"What does your father think of this?"

That last one hurt, and Scott had to fight not to let his reactions show on his face.

"Scott Tracy!"

"Scott Tracy!"

"Scott Tracy!"

He was sorely tempted to walk to the car to try and shake them off, except paparazzi were entirely unshakeable, and if he tried that without Other-Gordon, there would be a problem. Thankfully, he wasn't feeling anything beyond the usual _annoyance_ at being hounded; whatever the reason might be, it wasn't panic inducing – at least, not yet, although he was hoping it was going to stay that way – but Scott still wasn't enjoying the ordeal.

Other-Gordon was moving, stepping backwards towards his side, and Scott looked at him out of the corner of his eye as he put his hand on his shoulder.

"Sorry, everyone," he said loudly enough to catch their attention. "I'm afraid Scott's lost his voice, so he can't answer your questions today."

That, of course, sparked a whole new set of questions. What had happened? Was he ill? Why was he out and about if he couldn't talk? Other-Gordon defected all of them, somehow managing not to answer anything specific while also not contradicting the earlier tale he'd spun for Madeline after the first panic attack.

For his part, now that the attention was on him, Scott plastered a grin on his face, like the ones he tended to pull when he was 'no comment'ing his way through crowds of them at home, and prayed the hat and shades were doing enough to hide the few differences in his and Other-Scott's appearances from eagle-eyed paparazzi and – once the photos were published – the rest of the world. Other-Gordon, doubtlessly by design, had come to stand on his left, close enough that it would be difficult to extract his hand from his pocket on purpose, let alone accidentally.

He was also close enough that Scott would have no problem doing _four for Four_ if need be, something else he was certain Other-Gordon had done on purpose. Scott didn't take the offer; as he'd hoped, the paparazzi crowd wasn't enough to send him into a panic, so he stayed quiet and let the younger man handle them with an ease that belied practice. Of course, this universe's Gordon was an Olympic Champion, too.

"I think that's enough questions for today," Other-Gordon finally said, pressing on the back of Scott's shoulder in what he assumed was a signal to walk forwards. "Thank you for your time, but we've got more shopping to be doing, so this'll be all."

Of course, they didn't just _accept_ that and leave, but Scott kept walking forwards, towards the car, with Other-Gordon at his side now saying "no comment" to the questions still hurtled their way, and the crowd unwillingly parted to let them through.

The bags were placed in the footwells of the back seat, and Scott clambered into the passenger seat as quickly as he could without looking like he was trying to flee – or letting any of them catch a glimpse of his bandaged hand. Other-Gordon wasted no time in putting the car in drive, and then they were pulling out of the car park a little faster than Scott suspected they _should_.

"You endured that longer than I thought you would," Other-Gordon commented once they'd left the shop and its hovering paparazzi's sight. "I thought for sure you were going to bail when they asked about Dad's opinions."

That was a little too close to their agreed-upon taboo subject, but Scott let it slide.

"I'm used to difficult questions from them," he admitted. "And I've got a lot of experience in ignoring persistent questions." He paused for a split second before grinning. "I have four younger brothers, after all."

Other-Gordon laughed. "I suppose that's true," he agreed. "Still, they didn't seem to suspect a thing, so I'd say it was a success. Scott'll have to deal with the fallout of being 'seen' out and about without a voice, but he can handle that. He'll just charm everyone until they forget about it." He sighed. "In a way it's a shame you can't interact with everyone. It'd be interesting to see how you differ from him socially."

"How's your analysis coming along?" Scott asked, raising an eyebrow at him. "I know you've been watching me."

"Well, it's a lot harder when I've only got your body language to go on," Other-Gordon admitted. "Difference in fashion aside, your tastes are mostly similar, except for that hoodie. Why red and black?"

Scott shrugged, not quite willing to admit the truth on that one. "Wanted to catch you out," he grinned instead. "It's _weird_ how easily you're picking things up, even if it's because you're basing it on your actual brother."

"Scott goes for white or brown first if not blue," Other-Gordon frowned. "I don't think I've ever seen him go for red, and definitely not over blue like that. There were some very Scott-favoured blues in the pile."

Scott smirked. "Maybe we're not as similar as you thought."

"I'll figure it out," Other-Gordon promised, eyes narrowed in the same way Gordon did when he'd spotted a challenge. Scott hoped he didn't, but at the same time much preferred him focusing on that rather than everything they'd been discussing earlier that day on Tracy Island.


	11. Chapter 11

"So where are we going now?" Scott asked, changing the topic.

"Your call," Other-Gordon shrugged, even though Scott was fairly sure he had a destination in mind from the way he was driving. There was no hesitation about their route. "We can take a break and get ourselves a bite to eat, or we can get the rest of the shopping done and find food after."

Scott mentally ran through what they had left to get. "How likely are the paparazzi to hound us for the rest of the day?" he asked.

"Most likely they'll be asking around what we were buying for a while," Other-Gordon told him. "After that, it depends how interesting they find us, and if they can find us again."

Scott drew the line at paparazzi squawking about his choice of underwear, and sighed. "Might as well get those underpants now, then," he said.

"If you're sure," Other-Gordon said. He sounded dubious, but Scott glanced at him and saw concern, rather than disagreement.

"I'm sure," he said firmly. "Unless you're about to tell me I'll need fittings for _that_ because if that's the case then I'm sticking with what I've got."

Other-Gordon laughed. "Well, it's lucky for all of us that there won't be any fittings in the next shop, then," he grinned. "Underpants, socks and pyjamas are all in the same place. We're sticking with Scott's usual haunts now," he added. "Less for the paparazzi to get their teeth into."

Scott swallowed, thankful for the heads' up. Typically, sharp ginger eyes didn't miss it.

"Say, we didn't get to have that chat about a pattern yet, did we?" Other-Gordon commented. Scott sighed.

"I should be fine," he said.

"Scott." The disappointment was clear. "I can't help you if you don't let me."

He was _right_ but that didn't stop Scott disliking it.

"If I'm expecting it, it's fine," he clarified, although Other-Gordon's raised eyebrow said things were still as clear as mud.

"Expecting _what_." It wasn't a question, but an expectation, and Scott sighed.

"People that know your brother," he admitted. "The paparazzi, being recognised in the streets… they're one thing. That's fine."

"It's people who _know_ Scott," Other-Gordon finished for him. Scott nodded. "That explains Madeleine, but not George. Jones… We weren't with him long enough for him to notice anything?" Scott nodded again. "So, George is the opposite? We were with him too long?"

"Something like that," Scott agreed. "He saw when I slipped and tried to use the catalogue like I would at home."

Other-Gordon made a noise that sounded a little like a suspicion had been confirmed.

"I don't know for sure if it'll help," he said. "But try to remember two things."

Scott looked over at him again and resisted the urge to tell him to put both hands back on the wheel as one fist raised, a single finger extended.

"First, outside the airport no-one here knows Scott _that_ well. Certainly not well enough to notice any small differences. Even your voice might not be enough to raise most people's suspicions, that's mostly a precaution. They're not going to see one small slip and peg you as an imposter. Scott doesn't go shopping much, and he prefers going to Kansas or New York for the most part. Auckland's only for short day trips. Anyone acting familiar outside of the airport is doing exactly that. They're _acting_." A second finger raised. "Secondly, you're Scott Tracy. You might not be _my_ Scott, but you're still Scott Tracy. Have a little faith in yourself."

"Aren't you watching me and logging all the differences between us?" Scott asked, and Other-Gordon rolled his eyes. He did, thankfully, at least put his hand back on the wheel.

"That's how I know you can pull this off," he said. "There are differences, but they're ones I see because I'm family. Tom, Dick and Harry aren't going to notice a jot."

"George did."

"George saw you doing something weird," Other-Gordon shrugged. "No more catalogues, no more swishy fingers."

"Swishy fingers?"

"You looked like you were conducting an orchestra," Other-Gordon told him bluntly.

Okay, Scott could see that.

"Hold your head high and pretend you own the place," the ginger advised. "We won't be in this shop long." He pulled into another car park, next to a sleek building advertising _Outstanding Private Garments for the Gentleman_. "But if that doesn't work, remember four for Four," he added. "Three if you just need some space."

Despite himself, Scott found himself grinning. "Three for Three, four for Four," he repeated. "I can remember that." Associating the numbers with Thunderbirds was simple, but definitely effective.

"Whatever helps you remember," Other-Gordon shrugged. "But like I say, we shouldn't be in here long. Ready?"

In answer, Scott plucked at the lever in the side of the door, letting it open. Other-Gordon took the hint.

The inside of the shop was much more like _Lemaires'_ , if less filled with customers, than the workshop store had been. The class difference was painfully obvious, and Scott found himself wondering why rich meant _stuffy_ here. It was going to be a relief when he could shuck off Other-Scott's clothes – still too smart for Scott's liking even if it was clearly _supposed_ to be casual wear – and put on something that fit his own definition of casual.

Not-Dad could scowl about undone buttons and rolled up sleeves all he wanted, but if Scott was going to suffer being in a different universe, he'd at least do so _comfortably._

A salesman headed over to them, apparently drawn like a magnet to the sniff of _money_ , and Scott contentedly stayed back as Other-Gordon repeated their spiel about a lost voice and explained what they were after.

 _You're Scott Tracy._ It almost mirrored Not-Dad's departing message _remember you're a Tracy_ , and Scott wondered if this was what the older man had meant. He threw a grin in the salesman's direction when the man looked at him, kept his back straight and hands – both of them – in his pockets.

Just doing that made him feel like he really did belong there. It was a dangerous thought, and Scott quickly clarified to himself that by _there_ he meant _in the shop_ , and not _in this universe_ , because he certainly did _not_ belong in the latter and couldn't wait to get home.

As the man led them down aisles, presumably towards the underwear Other-Gordon had specified, he caught a look of approval from the ginger.

It wasn't much, just a brief curl of the corner of his mouth and a split second of eye contact out of the corner of his eye, but it lifted a weight Scott hadn't noticed settling on his chest.

He could do this. It was just some clothes.

Some clothes in a different universe and subsequently different fashions. Apparently this universe had not yet discovered his preferred style, or at least didn't offer them for _Gentlemen._ He pointedly ignored Other-Gordon watching him even as he nattered away to the salesman, no doubt keeping him distracted, and mentally ran through the options in front of him.

Comfort and practicality were both important, and it was with that in mind that he made his selection, hoping he wouldn't notice the difference too much when he was wearing them. He didn't know how often they did laundry, but in a vain hope he wouldn't be in this universe for too long, he grabbed a week's worth before turning back to the other men.

Other-Gordon's face betrayed nothing about his selection, but he did obligingly prod the salesman into leading them to the socks.

Once again, fashion differences made themselves known as trainer and ankle socks seemed to be entirely absent from the choices, leaving Scott with the simple choice of what pattern he wanted on the calf-high woollen offerings. They reminded him more than a little of soccer socks, and he kept half an eye on Other-Gordon as a yellow pair found their way into the selection amongst the blues, whites and blacks. To his frustration, the ginger seemed to have pulled on a poker face, no doubt anticipating that Scott would try and throw him again with colour selection.

Still, even that gave him some sort of sense of normalcy, which in turn kept him calm and focused on what they needed to do, and not what anyone else was thinking of him. Other-Gordon keeping up a stream of chatter with the salesman – whose name Scott realised he still hadn't caught – was enough to quell the last of the what-ifs, and even selecting a few pairs of pyjamas was much less of a trial than it could have been.

Even if Scott really wished he could just wear a tatty old t-shirt and shorts like he defaulted to at home. Unfortunately, _Gentlemen_ apparently wore sleeping shirts made of cotton with matching full-length trousers, much like the ones he'd woken up in earlier that morning, and once again had a limited selection that seemed to mostly vary in the shape of the collar and length of the arms.

Assuming that this universe's Tracy Island tended towards the same temperatures as his home, he opted for mostly thinner, short-sleeved choices, and ignored the many patterned ones in favour of plain where he could. Blue, yes, but there was also dark grey and another red and black chequered pattern he couldn't bring himself not to choose.

Amber eyes narrowed at the final selection, Other-Gordon logging it and no doubt wracking his brain for anything that might be inspiring his now second choice for that combination. Scott was mostly hopeful he wouldn't figure it out, but the other man had proven himself to be extremely sharp. There was always a chance he would.

"That seemed like it went better," the ginger commented once the clothes were paid for and they were back in the car. The engine purred, although the car was still in neutral and Other-Gordon was leaning back in the seat. Scott hoped the fuel was as carbon neutral here as it was at home.

'Went better' wasn't a hard thing to surmise, considering it was the first shop Scott hadn't had a full-blown panic attack in – or any real panic at all. "What helped?"

They had one shop left to go, by Scott's estimation, and no doubt he was going to have to interact with strangers again for it. Even at home, shoe shopping still required checking they _fit_ , so he didn't dare hope it would be avoidable here. After the reprieve of the relatively easy experience he'd just had, he hoped he could hold it together long enough to get a couple of pairs of sneakers.

"No fittings," he said dryly when Other-Gordon cleared his throat meaningfully. "It was easier to ignore everyone else."

"That's not going to be possible when we get the shoes," Other-Gordon reminded him, and he sighed.

"I know," he said. "But I can handle it."

"Do you want that café break now?"

Scott shook his head. "Let's get this over with," he said. "Putting it off won't make it easier."

"If you're sure," Other-Gordon replied, but there was no dubiousness in his tone this time. Scott suspected he wasn't the only one relieved at the success in the latest shop. The ginger shifted the car into drive and then they were rolling out onto the streets again. "How many shoes are you thinking of?"

"Two should be enough," Scott shrugged. "Both sneakers."

"No sandals?" Other-Gordon looked surprised. Scott shook his head again.

"I won't need those," he said. "Two pairs of sneakers will be plenty."

"Well, I suppose you can always steal Scott's shoes if you end up needing anything else," the other man mused. "You'll need protective boots before you get in the hangars properly," he added, "but we can't get those here."

"I _have_ protective boots," Scott reminded him.

"Only when Brains isn't prodding at them," Other-Gordon pointed out. "I didn't look at your boots that closely but they looked weird."

"I'm almost certainly going to think the same thing about yours when I see them properly," Scott shrugged. "They're protective enough. Not quite as heavy duty as Virgil's, but they're still superior to steel caps."

"Sounds useful," Other-Gordon commented. "We're here."

That had been a considerably shorter drive than any of the others. Scott made to get out of the car, but a hand on his arm stopped him.

"Scott got new sneakers recently," Other-Gordon warned him. "So the chaps here will remember him."

The pressure that had lifted with the last shop made its return known with a vengeance, and Scott grit his teeth. The hand on his arm tightened, grounding him, and he glanced over at Other-Gordon.

"Will it help if I go over the story with you now?" the ginger asked, serious eyes meeting his through the shades. "Remember, they might remember him, but they don't _know_ him. Behave like you did in the last shop and everything will be fine."

"The story?" Scott asked, taking a deep breath.

"That you like them enough to want more," Other-Gordon clarified. "As for your hand; you slipped over by the pool and grazed it."

Scott hadn't even considered his hand, and that he'd need to be using it.

"Scott, are you okay to go in or do you want that café break first?" Other-Gordon asked, seriousness laced all through the words. Scott swallowed. Instinct told him he was going to struggle, but his pride rebelled at the idea of running away.

His lack of an immediate answer seemed to be all Other-Gordon needed as he shoved the car back into drive.

"Wait-" Scott protested as he realised they were leaving. Sharp amber eyes looked at him.

"What did you have for breakfast this morning?"

 _Breakfast?_ Scott blinked, caught out by the question.

"All you've had since you got here was Grandma's apple pie," Other-Gordon continued. "Now, I don't know about you, but I'm starting to feel mighty peckish, and I had a nice, leisurely breakfast after my swim this morning."

Now that he'd mentioned it, Scott realised the churning in his stomach might not be entirely looming panic. He didn't actually _remember_ breakfast. There was that early morning call-out; he'd chugged a coffee during John's briefing then gone to pluck the climber from the mountain, and then returned home with the intent of catching a couple more hours of sleep before properly facing the day.

Food, he realised, hadn't featured at all. He'd left One, somehow fallen through a universe collision, and then ended up _here_.

"Coffee," he eventually answered.

"And?"

Scott shrugged. "Early morning callout. _Bed_ was the plan when I got back."

"Hold on a moment," Other-Gordon said. "You're telling me that slice of apple pie's the only thing you've eaten in… how long?"

"I ate dinner last night," Scott defended himself.

"Gee." Other-Gordon shook his head. "That settles it. We're going to a café and you're going to eat."

Scott didn't have an argument for that one, and his stomach made its agreement known by grumbling at him suddenly. Other-Gordon laughed.

"We've got all day," he reminded him. "We can take our time, remember?"

Scott sighed, but knew when he was beaten. "You got a place in mind?"

"A few," Other-Gordon said. "Say, you don't have any allergies, do you?"

"Nothing I'm aware of," he assured him.

"In that case," the ginger said. " _The Nine Bells_ has some private booths and a good menu."

The name wasn't familiar to Scott, but he hadn't spent much time in Auckland for the sake of sight-seeing – or shopping – so he didn't know if it didn't exist in his universe or if he'd just never had cause to go near it.

"I'll take your word for it," he said, and Other-Gordon shot him a grin.

"They serve apple pie," he promised, and Scott rolled his eyes. Even he'd noticed Other-Scott's fondness for the food, so it was no surprise at all that Other-Gordon had his favourite dessert pegged already. "And their coffee's good."

"What about their tea?" Scott asked, keeping a straight face as he got the double-take reaction he was hoping for.

"You drink tea?" Other-Gordon asked. Scott shrugged.

"Only in England."

Other-Gordon huffed, and Scott let the threatening grin creep onto his face. "I should have seen that coming," the ginger grumbled. "You're terrible."

"I'm a big brother," Scott shrugged. "Can't let the younger ones win all the time."

"Definitely a Scott," Other-Gordon muttered, shaking his head. "Let's get some food in you."

"That sounds like a plan," Scott agreed. Now that he was aware of the gnawing hunger, it clearly had no intentions of letting him forget about it.

The rest of the drive passed in silence, and Scott let himself properly look out at the streets as they drove through. Much of it was unfamiliar to him; shop fronts were styled differently, and there were no holograms lighting up sales as they tried to entice customers to browse. That was no doubt entirely due to the difference in technologies, although he was getting the impression that even _society_ seemed to be subtly different at times.

If Other-John and Other-Brains couldn't find a quick way to get him back and he was stuck here for a while until they figured it out – and they _would_ figure it out, because Scott couldn't afford to think otherwise – he was going to have a lot to learn even though he doubted he'd be leaving the island much, at least not as Scott Tracy. If he was going to be living here for a while, he was _definitely_ going to get involved in International Rescue somehow.

He couldn't imagine sitting back and watching others do what was _his_ job without stepping in to help, and inaction was never his style.

"Everything alright?" Other-Gordon asked suddenly. "You've gone quiet."

Scott shrugged. "Just thinking," he answered, not looking away from the passing buildings.

"Don't hurt yourself."

Scott rolled his eyes. Some things transcended universes, apparently.

"Penny for your thoughts?" the ginger continued. Scott wondered if he was worried he was spiralling again.

"Just about-" he cut himself off, remembering that even if they were in the car they were out in public – a public that _didn't_ know about International Rescue's identity. "The family business," he hedged.

"Yours or ours?"

"Yours, mostly," Scott admitted. "Where I'll fit in."

"Dad won't say no," Other-Gordon assured him. "It's short-staffed for obvious reasons, but those don't apply to you. I know the two of you aren't seeing eye to eye right now, and I won't lie – working out where you sit in the hierarchy is going to take a lot of compromise, mostly on your end – but if you're going to be hanging around, you might as well make yourself useful."

It was the second time Other-Gordon had confidently said he'd be able to join their International Rescue, although Scott was well aware there'd be a lot of difficulty _fitting in_.

He'd been Commander of his International Rescue longer than _this_ International Rescue had been operating. But he didn't know _their_ technology, their limits and procedures. Even the jargon was different.

"I'm not afraid of hard work," he said, and Other-Gordon laughed.

"No-one's going to doubt that," he promised. "You don't do well sitting around, do you?"

"Another shared trait?" Scott assumed dryly. To his surprise, Other-Gordon shrugged.

"I think you're worse for it," he admitted. Startled, Scott looked away from the passing buildings to regard Other-Gordon again. "Scott doesn't do well sitting around all the time, but that doesn't stop him lounging for a few hours with the rest of us." Amber eyes glanced over at him. "I get the feeling you've forgotten _how_ to."

That was getting dangerously close to Dad's crash again, never mind the fact that Other-Gordon was _right_. His own brothers had got on his case about it enough for Scott to know he hadn't _relaxed_ in years. Not properly.

"I remember how," he muttered, the words coming out more defensively than he'd intended.

"Something tells me you're not going to be demonstrating that knowledge," Other-Gordon challenged, once again _right_ because he was entirely too sharp. Scott knew he wouldn't be able to relax at all until he was home and knew his brothers were all safe and well. "I'm not going to stop you," the ginger continued. "But don't burn yourself out."

"I won't," Scott promised.

Other-Gordon's silence loudly proclaimed that he expected otherwise but knew better than to call him out on it. Scott appreciated it; that was a heavy enough conversation for his liking.

There had been a lot of those on this shopping trip, despite him choosing Other-Gordon to _avoid_ them. It would have been so much worse if he'd come with anyone else.

Part of him wasn't looking forwards to getting back, because then he'd have the whole island watching him again. He also, he realised, needed to apologise to Other-Virgil for brushing him off so abruptly, even if he was glad he'd stood his ground against Not-Dad.

Dealing with Not-Dad on a regular basis was definitely going to be the hardest part of this universe. Scott knew he was going to have to talk to the man, especially if he was going to join their International Rescue, but he looked just like Dad, and even now his chest hurt when he thought about it.

"We're here," Other-Gordon said, pulling into a car park in front of a large building that proclaimed _The Nine Bells_ in a neat cursive. It looked fancy, but then Other-Gordon _had_ said they offered private booths, which Scott was well aware they'd need.

He followed the ginger into the building, where they were promptly greeted by a waitress.

"Good afternoon, sirs," she chirped. "A table for two?" Her eyes were firmly fixed on him, and he knew he was wearing shades but she was pretty cute so he sent her a wink and a grin anyway.

She flushed red. Good to know he still had it in another universe.

"A private booth, please," Other-Gordon said, stepping forwards and – _ow_ – onto Scott's foot. Well, if he wanted him to be himself, then he was going to flirt with the pretty girls, regardless of whether or not he could talk.

"Of course," she stammered, still looking at him rather than the Tracy that was actually talking to her. "This way." Still bright red, and throwing glances at him over her shoulder, she slipped between the public tables until they came to a concealed privacy booth, no doubt for their richer customers. Scott supposed Tracys counted. She hovered as they both slid into seats, before placing menus in front of both of them – him first. He thanked her with another grin, and got a nudge in the shin from Other-Gordon.

"Would you like a jug of water?" she asked him. Other-Gordon jumped in with the affirmative, and she hurried off to get it.

"Must you flirt with the waiting staff?" the ginger asked after she was gone. Scott shrugged.

"She's pretty," he said. Other-Gordon rolled his eyes.

"If it makes you happier," he sighed, and Scott definitely heard the underlying relief there that _something_ was cheering him up.

"I'll take the small victories where I can get them," he confirmed, pulling the menu down in front of him. "I don't suppose you'll take her number for me?"

"Not under false pretences," the other man retorted. Scott scowled; he had a point. Other-Gordon shook his head and grinned. "At least you're looking happier."

"Until you stole my fun," Scott grumbled, but he knew Other-Gordon was right. He couldn't flirt seriously with anyone while he was pretending to be Other-Scott.

"Just choose something from the menu," Other-Gordon told him. "Several somethings, if this is really your first meal today. Grandma will have my hide if you pass out on me."

"I'm not going to pass out," Scott protested, but he looked at the menu anyway.

Food, it seemed, was the same across universes. It wasn't much hassle to find something he liked – he'd never been a particularly picky eater, and from the amused looks on Other-Gordon's face, the ginger could probably have ordered for him without even asking.

"The same?" he asked resignedly.

"Near enough," Other-Gordon shrugged. "Coffee?"

The waitress reappeared before Scott could give a verbal answer, so he nodded as she set the water and two glasses down on the table.

"Are you ready to order, sirs?" she asked, once again fixed on him as she withdrew a notebook from her apron and held a pencil up, poised to write.

Rolling his eyes, Other-Gordon placed the order for both of them. She looked a little put out that Scott, for all his grinning, wasn't actually saying a word to her, and clearly Other-Gordon wasn't feeling like a generous enough wingman to _tell_ her that he couldn't talk.

She hovered for a moment longer after writing down the order, but Other-Gordon looked away from her in a clear dismissal, and Scott reluctantly followed suit, leaving her scurrying away a little disappointedly.

"Now I seem fickle," Scott huffed once she was out of earshot. Other-Gordon looked amused, smirking in an _annoying little brother_ manner.

"You're telling me you're not going to start smiling at the next pretty woman you see?" he asked. Scott rolled his eyes.

"That's not the point," he denied.

"I disagree," Other-Gordon retorted. "Gee, you'd think they'd give the Olympic Champion the time of day, at least."

"Not all the girls care about gold medals," Scott smirked. It was Other-Gordon's turn to huff.

"They do when there's no tall dark and handsome winking at them next to me," he muttered. "If there's one thing that's not so good about the job, it's the secrecy."

"It's not worth the headache." That, Scott could say for certain. "Trust me."

"I'll trust your grey hairs," Other-Gordon agreed, and Scott scowled at him. He put his hands up. "I promised not to ask questions and I won't," he said. "But if there's anything you want to know, I'm available."

"Here?" Scott asked, glancing around at the café. The privacy booth at least meant he could talk, but he wasn't so sure Not-Dad would approve of International Rescue being discussed there.

"Well, maybe not _here_ ," Other-Gordon conceded. "But any time."

It was a comforting offer, especially after their first conversation where the man had physically and verbally cornered him and refused to let him near any of the Thunderbirds.

 _We're on the same side_. The offer was an extension of that promise, and Scott nodded in acknowledgement.

"I still want that tour," he said, and Other-Gordon laughed.

"Well, that doesn't surprise me," he said. "I'll have to clear it with Dad, but I'm positive I can convince him."

That would be the first test to see if Not-Dad was, as Other-Gordon believed, going to be willing to let him join if they couldn't immediately find a way to get him home. Scott really hoped Other-Gordon's optimism was in the right place.

The younger man reached for the jug in the middle of the table and poured himself a glass before reaching for Scott's. He pushed it closer with a nod of thanks and watched as it filled up before taking a drink. He hadn't realised how thirsty he was until the liquid hit his throat, and before he'd realised it, the glass was empty.

Other-Gordon raised his own glass in a mimicry of a toast before taking his own draft.

"You're not going to tell me the last drink you had was that tea you kept dropping, are you?" the ginger asked. Scott shook his head.

"Tin-Tin gave me coffee while we talked," he said, grabbing the glass and pouring himself another measure before throwing that back as well.

"How did that go?" Other-Gordon asked. "Was it useful?"

"I think so," Scott said, resting his elbow on the table and propping his chin on his hand. "Most of what we discussed were things you already knew. Otherwise, it was mostly technology differences."

"Did she have any theories?" the other man asked, taking another drink of his water.

Scott shook his head.

"She just said she'd take it to your Brains," he shrugged. "The others came back so we went back for the debrief."

"Alan was mighty miffed with you then," Other-Gordon commented. Scott had noticed. "I'm guessing he saw you two together?"

"We met him on the landing," Scott confirmed. "He didn't seem happy. Is there any particular reason he's so…" He trailed off, trying to find a word to describe Other-Alan's attitude in a way that wasn't blatantly insulting.

"So _Alan_?" Other-Gordon asked. "Mostly it's because he's the youngest. Your Alan's not like that?"

Scott scoffed. "If my Alan talked back like that he'd be grounded and he knows it. He's younger than yours, but I'm not letting him grow up thinking he can get his own way all the time."

"Aw, Alan's not so bad," the ginger said, clearly defending his younger brother. "Sure, he can be a bit of a pain, but he's a little brother. Fame went to his head a bit after he kept winning races, and you didn't make the best first impression on him by punching Scott, _or_ breaking Dad's nose."

Scott sighed. "He wouldn't tell me where my brothers were," he explained. "Of course, at that point neither of us knew about this multiverse thing." He eyed the younger man. "But by that logic, I didn't make the best first impression on you, either."

"You got that right," Other-Gordon admitted. "You seemed too dangerous to let wander around, I'll admit, but Grandma and Tin-Tin didn't seem bothered by you and then Brains and John had their theory – which you near enough proved – and I figured I'd give you a chance, you know?"

"You interrogated me," Scott corrected dryly. The other man shrugged.

"Details," he dismissed. "You're not so bad, you're just out of your depth. Can't say I blame you. I couldn't say how I'd have reacted if it were me." He paused for a moment. "How are you holding up?"

Scott huffed tiredly and ran a hand over his face, wincing when they snagged the shades he forgot he was wearing.

"Right now, I'm fine," he said, his instincts rebelling against telling the truth – that the idea was enough to scare him, that he was _terrified_ he couldn't get home. Worried how his family were taking his disappearance. "Ask me again after it's sunk in."

"I'll do that," Other-Gordon promised, taking another drink from his glass. Amber eyes scanned him searchingly, and Scott met his gaze head-on, daring him to claim he wasn't as fine as he was pretending.

If the ginger had noticed the façade, he didn't comment. Then again, it was at that moment the waitress returned with a platter of sandwiches. At the sight and smell of them, Scott's stomach growled loudly. The waitress was too shy to giggle, but he saw her eyebrows raise and he sent her a slightly sheepish grin before picking up one from the pile and toasting her with it.

Other-Gordon kicked him in the shins again. Scott ignored him.

"Your coffee will be ready in a moment," she said, smiling at him with cheeks coloured a rosy blush. "Is there anything else I can get you right now?"

 _Your number,_ Scott thought, but Other-Gordon studiously avoided any eye contact with him as he dismissed the girl – _without_ asking for her number, _or_ explaining why he wasn't talking. Little brothers were a nuisance whatever universe they were from, apparently.

Scott huffed at him once she was out of earshot and bit into the sandwich with a little more vigour than was strictly necessary.

Other-Gordon's response was a mixture of exasperation and faint disapproval as he took his own pick from the platter to eat. "I told you, you're not who she thinks you are," he reminded him. "You can send all the flirty looks you want, I'm not asking for her number for you."

"I know," Scott sighed, swallowing the mouthful. "Oh, these are _good_."

Other-Gordon grinned. "I told you the food here would be."

"You did," Scott acknowledged, polishing off the first one and grabbing another. He supposed that if he was going to be stuck in another universe for a while, at least there was good food.

The blushing waitress – whose name he never caught, but she didn't offer it and Other-Gordon didn't _ask_ – kept coming back with more of their ordered food as they ate. The ginger devoured just as much as he did, proving he hadn't been lying about his own hunger, and conversation was mostly dropped in favour of sustenance.

By the time the final dregs of Scott's coffee were drained from the cup, he estimated they must have been there at least an hour, if not more. He still hadn't figured out how to read the analogue dial on the watch, and was at loathe to ask while they were in public.

Still, he was conscious that there was still one shop left to go, and the sun's steady march across the sky was unrelenting. They only had _so_ much time, a fact supported by the way Other-Gordon checked his own watch before giving him a considering look.

"There's an hour left until the shops close," the ginger told him. "Do you want to give it another try, or should we head back to the island?" Scott raised an eyebrow at him. He was fairly sure the ginger knew what his answer was going to be.

Sure enough, he got a groan and a mutter about _pushing yourself too hard_ , but Other-Gordon waved the waitress over for the bill without trying to change his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... totally forgot to update last week. Oops. Lab time’s started so uni got a little distracting. Also you guys seemed to love the hoodie thing so I figured that had you satisfied for a little while :P (if you haven’t seen it, @louthestarspeaker did some [amazing art](https://louthestarspeaker.tumblr.com/post/643330505946873857/so-this-was-inspired-by-chapter-10) for that!)

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy, so I've been working on this for literal months and it's gonna be a hell of a ride. Strictly speaking, I haven't got far enough in writing this to be totally confident in starting to post it, but it's Thunderbirds Day and quite frankly there is no day more perfect to start this particular adventure. I have a vague plan to update this approximately weekly, but we'll see how uni interferes with that...
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> Tsari


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